This is the car that my husband bought from a police auction when he was 16 years old. It's his baby. He loves it.
Since then, the Bronco has basically become my car (but don't let Brian hear you calling it my car because it makes him really sad). I don't mind driving it. Now. At first, it scared me. The thing is 18 years old, for Pete's sake. Not to mention before we switched cars, I had only driven it a handful of times and it had died on me. Twice.
But now, I'm used to it and I love it. Sure it's difficult throwing a car seat into a 2 door SUV that is 30 inches or so off the ground. Sure the gas mileage isn't great and the general smell of man/metal hasn't disappeared. Sure I have to manually roll the windows down and it takes a minute or two to get up to speed on the freeway.
But the pros? Well, that thing is a tank. If we ever get into an accident, I'm sure we'll come out alive and unscathed. I'm also fairly certain the doors are bullet proof (since it was a police car before) because they weigh a ton and I should know. I have the bruised shins to prove it. It also has a metal bumper so there's plenty of space for me to push cars out of my way and no one ever has to know.
All in all, would I trade it for the fancy Dodge Journey we rented (courtesy of my baby sis who works at Enterprise) with its satellite radio, push-button ignition, and rear controlled A/C this past weekend on our trip to LA?
Don't tell Brian.