THE VEHICLE EFFECT
Admittedly, it feels a bit like a “fuck you all” not to drive an electric car these days. Climate change, you know. Still, that “fuck you all” kind of feels good sometimes. (Sorry, Planet.) At least as long as the car isn’t right in front of you.
My car is almost ten years old now. Rust creeping through, rain leaking in, parts giving up one by one. Still, this slowly dying pile of shit, the one I’ve poured too much money and too many memories into, somehow feels like a friend. For a lot of people, mostly men if we’re honest, cars are therapy. A distraction. You and the machine become one for a moment. And if you happen to find the right car, the one that fits, you love it. It’s a companion, a tool, and even if no one admits it out loud, a status symbol. Cars define who we think we are. Whether you’re sitting in a Dacia Logan or a 7 Series, it shapes your image. They build this ego-flattering illusion around us. Elon Musk in a Fiat Multipla would instantly look like the perfect local degenerate.
The dream of finally owning your perfect car, feeling the leather, shifting gears, that first burst of acceleration, is something primal. But if you zoom out for a second, things get interesting. Especially when you look past the shiny new object like a caveman discovering fire. Critics see it clearer than lovers.
Watch a new car owner talk about their “new sense of freedom” during the first weeks. It’s fascinating. You sit in a 100k beast, and what’s the real experience? Accelerate. Brake. Shift. Watch the parking cameras. Adjust the sound system. Maybe touch the steering wheel for good measure. That’s it. The rest, the beauty, the spectacle, you don’t even see. Unless you drive past a glass building, you never actually see your car in motion.
That’s the paradox. You’re inside your dream, but you can’t watch it. And the strangest part is how envy starts creeping in from others, and it gets under your skin. You start asking yourself why people can’t just be happy for you. And suddenly you’re there, sitting in this too-expensive, too-loud, fuel-hungry ego machine, trying to justify it to yourself.
“Was it the right decision?”
“A smaller car would’ve done it.”
“It’s just sitting there most of the time anyway.”
All the rational answers say no. But then there’s that one irrational word: life.
And then comes the fuel topic. CO₂ footprint, guilt, mental gymnastics. You tell yourself, “Well, others are worse.” But that’s not really true. So what’s left? Take public transport in the city, sure, easy enough. Out in the countryside, not really an option. So you’re back at the same crossroads. Drive or don’t drive. Feel good or feel bad. It doesn’t make life any easier.
We all want things. We all lie to ourselves. Whether it’s the woman parading her 600-euro handbag on Friday night or the guy strapping on a dead man’s Rolex, it’s the same mechanism. We want to reward ourselves. To tell ourselves we’ve earned it. Even if it changes nothing about our daily grind. Same routine, just slightly shinier accessories.
