When I first considered trading in the Jeep, I got all weepy and sentimental. Fifteen years of adventures were had in that car. It was the car I purchased with my late, great dog Ed in mind. No fewer than three first kisses had taken place under its hardtop, and at least seven ex-girlfriends had driven it. I had rolled it in a ditch and it had come out without a scratch, which is more than I can say for its occupants. Yes, as I gazed upon it, the Jeep vibrated with history.
I would even miss the Dorkass Memorial Ass Dent.
This is the only body damage the Jeep has ever sustained. One night we sat upon the hood with our backs against the window, and in the decade since, there's been a dent where her ass was. My side? Fine. Her side? Notably concave.
"I dented it?" she said when I shared these thoughts recently, probably wondering how, if this were possibly true, I hadn't posted about it already.
When I visited the dealer the next day, he marveled over the shape the Jeep was in. And then he saw the hood and paused. "Except for this dent."