In the mid-90's I bought a baby-blue, "stock," 32-year-old Chevrolet Biscayne and drove it for six years/26,000 miles. It looked almost new when I bought it. It drove like it was almost new, and it cost me what I would have paid for it—new—in 1964. The only down-side to owning it was when parking it, getting into it, or stopping at intersections with the windows rolled down...strangers were compelled to talk to me about it. The invisible societal barrier that I'd grown accustomed to—the one which facilitates a quick trip to the grocery store without being constantly accosted by questions and conversation—had been removed by the car.I received many compliments: "Hey great car. They sure don't make em that way any more." and, "Wow! Classic Detroit Steel, amazing!" Some criticisms: "I can't believe you are driving this on the roads!" and, "You don't actually take it out on the highway do you?" As well as the occasional derision: "You're a fool. I can't believe you're using that irreplaceable antique as your primary mode of transportation!"
Compliments made me feel uncomfortable because I didn't design it, build it, or paint it...so thank you felt all wrong...I'd normally reply with some form of: Well, I really like driving it.I would usually field criticism with humor: It prefers roads over ditches, or something like, The highways and speed limits are the same as they were in '64, when this baby was born.
And, I'd normally meet derision with facts: I paid three grand for it. What did you pay for yours?...So if I promise not to tell you how to use your expensive chunk of steel and rubber, will you promise not to tell me how to use my cheap one?
One time, this last one backfired. Some guy replied with a smarmy, "Eighteen hundred, what of it?" and the phrase left my mouth containing the words cheap piece of shit, which sounds so much more derogatory than expensive chunk of metal and rubber that I had to quickly get in my irreplaceable antique and jet it down the highway.
The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad, and if I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behavior. What demon possessed me that I behaved so well? — Henry David Thoreau (from Walden)
