People give names to all sorts of things. There’s the business of naming children or pets. On the not-quite-as-permanent side of life, I’ve been known to lovingly look at my morning cup of coffee and say, “Hello, Gorgeous.” Another non-serious name? That which I’ve given to my car, Roxy.
I didn’t name her after Chicago‘s Roxy Hart, although that would probably make a little bit more sense. I named her Roxy mostly as a means to use “foxy” in a sentence on a daily basis. I probably would have christened her Foxy Brown, but my car is red, so that just wouldn’t make sense. Plus, I can’t really imagine Pam Grier planning her ultra-violent revenge from the driver’s seat of my cute little hatchback.
But I’m not the only one to bestow a name on those four wheels that cost $4.50 a gallon to move. My girlfriend’s unassuming black car is Bruce, and, to up the ante of crazy, we pretend that our cars have crushes on each other. “Oh, did you see how Bruce just checked out Roxy as we drove by?” I’ll say as I pull into the driveway. “Somebody’s got a crush on somebody!”
As much as I wish I were kidding, I’m not. I’ve motivated Roxy up the steep grade in Camarillo, I’ve encouraged Roxy to get me home safely after late-night concerts in L.A. (so what if that means I’m really encouraging myself?). More than once I’ve patted Bruce’s dashboard as he rumbles, amazingly enough, to life once more. And before Roxy and Bruce, there were Eleanor (she was a sensible gray car) and Shakespeare (my girlfriend’s 1989 Accord that shook like crazy whenever the key was in the ignition).
Naming my car Roxy? Ridiculous, I know. But being able to say “Foooxxyy Roooxxyy!” when she zooms onto the freeway onramp? Priceless.