I forgot to share this week's column with you! And it's so beautiful, so moving, so overwhelming ... well, get your hankies ready. Here it is.

The Object of My Perfection

“You have no standards.” I’ve heard that a lot in my life, and to some extent it’s true. But I like to interpret my lack of standards as an ability to appreciate small things. I’m delighted by almost anything.

“Oh, look at that,” I’ll say. “The Police are going to be reunited at the Grammy Awards!” Or, “A mini flashlight came in the package with the larger flashlight. It’s a keychain!”

My lack of standards extends, most significantly, to big-ticket items like cars. Several years ago I was thrilled when I inherited my grandfather’s 1989 Oldsmobile Cutlass—despite its sagging interior and cruise-ship dimensions. I drove that car constantly, ferrying drunken friends across town—until the Philadelphia Police Department ran into it during a chase.

I’d parked it on a side street in Old City so I could go to a Fringe event, and when I came back the car was all puckered and hinky-looking. The PD left a form letter on my windshield. Something like, “Your car was damaged during the commission of law enforcement. Call us.”

I called and learned that no matter how many times you’ve donated to the Police Athletic League (or, like, thought about it), you’re dreaming if you think the PD will give you enough money to fix your car. The Olds had to be junked.

Last year it seemed my car luck was looking up. My boyfriend’s mother generously sent a sparkly clean 1993 Honda Accord from California to Philadelphia. I’d never owned a Honda before, but I noted with some delight—okay, a lot of delight—that it was really the perfect car. So much so, in fact, that I started to call it the Perfect Car, making my voice deep to convey capital letters.

I liked everything about it: power windows, a sunroof, soft upholstery, cup holders, a fold-down armrest, cruise control, an adjustable steering wheel … Honda thought of everything!

I especially liked that you could just touch the driver’s side window button, and it would go all the way down—very convenient for toll booths. I felt unaccountably grown-up when I used that function.

I was even grateful for the cassette deck—another delight—because, dude, I’ve got some great Todd Rundgren tapes left over from high school.

When I saw other green Honda Accords of a similar vintage, I pointed like a child playing a travel game: “Look!” I’d say, cheerful as ever. “The Perfect Car!” There was something kind of sad about my enthusiasm, but I felt proud I could value something so unexciting. No Lexus or BMW for me, no sir. I went to a Quaker high school.

Then, on Jan. 14, a day like any other, I walked out of my apartment with a jaunty step, car keys at the ready, and found a bulbous orange vehicle in the spot where the Perfect Car had been. At first I chalked it up to forgetting where I’d parked, though I never do that. I walked down the street, up the street and then all over the neighborhood before it sank in: The Perfect Car hadn’t, in fact, metamorphosed into an orange car. Nor had it gone for a joyride. The Perfect Car was judged so perfect by someone else, it was stolen.

I called the one detective I know, Joe “the Fuzz” Murray, whom I wrote about a couple months ago. He’d said to call him anytime—which I’m sure he now regrets. When I told him what kind of car it was, he said, “Oh, man. That’s gone.”

Apparently—and I’ll give you this tip for free—Honda Accords from the ’90s are frequently stolen because the parts are so desirable. The Perfect Car was probably already sitting in a chop shop.

Thereafter things got very boring. Insurance. Titles. Insurance. Claim numbers. Police reports. Insurance.

I woke up in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat: “Shit! Didn’t I leave [blank] in the glove compartment of the Perfect Car?” And the to-do list just got longer.

Finally, we said goodbye, emotionally, to the Honda, and decided to find a new used car we could care for almost as much. This was also extremely boring. Consumer Reports. Edmunds. Kelley Blue Book. NADA. Credit union. Loan rates.

Calendar pages flipped by, and I got older and grayer with each flip.

But ultimately a decision was made: the Subaru Baja. It has a truck license plate, and enough toting capacity to help during a move—though, um, not yours because … I’m busy that weekend.

It has leather seats, which is a new idea for me, and the owner’s manual says it has a “moonroof,” which sounds more alluring than the Honda’s sunroof. It has cup holders and cruise control and yes, the automatic window function. But it’s a 2004, and in great shape, and unlike the Perfect Car, it’s not an underdog. It’s perfect, but not in spite of itself. It’s, well, smug.

Then again, maybe I’m romanticizing a bit. As Confucius once said, perhaps in a fortune cookie, “Better a diamond with a flaw than a pebble without.” Or as I would say, better a Baja with a Club than a Honda without. Trust me.

[Photo of my new car by me.]