My first car was a 1989 Plymouth Reliant. Champagne pink. Not Mary Kay, but champagne. My grandmother bought it new, and nearly ten years later, it was mine. Ahhhhhhh, the "K" car. It had all the style of a bowling shoe without the stripes. The interior was dark red plush, with a bench seat in the front. It had a tape deck and power nothing. The best part? I received the car with a mere 50,000 miles on it; and it looked great. I had landed Grandma's little grocery getter.

Deemed "The Pink Lady", my car was a caricature on wheels. At college, everyone drove gleaming SUV's or sleek volkswagens. I had a K car. Still, I would rumble down the highway with the windows down, blaring Blondie after a good day of shopping.

I was waiting tables in those days. My nights were long and hard. And that's while I was at work. Afterwards, we'd party until 6, lay out at the pool, pick out a fabulous outfit for the bars, and do it all over again. Five days a week. I used to joke that I wouldn't get out of bed for less than $120 a day. It was a solid six hours of work, and heavy drinking ensued nearly every night into the wee hours. Poker, Truth or Dare, dancing, joints, deep conversations, bottles of wine, midnight tie-dye and camping. Each day was a different party.

Eventually, the K car broke down up in Winchester on a road trip, and I found myself with a new car. 1998 Ford Escort ZX2. It was black. Next to the K car, my eyes saw an obsidian serpeant, sleek with curves and aerodynamic. I had landed my first job managing a restaurant; Eagle's at the Golf Clubhouse, Kingsmill Resort. The once bossy tomboy in pigtails somehow became a leader. I was forced to wear a suit, but I overlooked it for a chance to learn to golf. I was barely 24 when I started, but somehow managed to pull off enough of a "young professional" look to get the job. I was eager and tireless. Sick of waiting tables and calling the managers out on a daily basis. I was determined to do better and decided to prove it.

And as the boss, I couldn't roll up in a K car!

I was perfectly happy with the Escort. Sporty, economical, and comfortable. Unfortunately, opportunity came knocking. My sister needed a car, and her choices were limited by the long, bitter gray ice of the winters in upstate New York. I was to trade my Escort for my Dad's BMW. My sister would get the Escort; my father a new car.

To hell with the costly insurance and never-ending maintenance and service appointments. The ultimate drive was the ultimate. And it was mine! Surely, I deserved it after owning a pink K car! Though the car was not fast, just a 4 cylinder, 3.18 liter engine, she'd grip the curves with reckless abandon and handle the road with sensitivity. I was one with the car and LOVED to drive it. Sure, I lucked into an eight year old car, but it had class and spunk.

Shortly after I got the Beemer, I left Kingsmill in a move that I still consider political. A new restaurant was opening and I was on board with my heart. I loved what I heard and was sick of the game. Nearly started to work myself to death at Kingsmill, and for what? Sure, my office was huge, two assistant managers reported to me, and I had really attempted to be passionate for my job. But ultimately, I felt in my heart that it wasn't for me.

The BMW never ceased to be a pleasure. But it had quickly become an eyesore. Rust had slowly crept onto the underpinnings, the mag wheels were a cloudy shade of charcoal, and several of the comfortable extras have seen better days.

Then, this January, I was headed back from a Quintessa tasting in Richmond. For those of you who don't know, Quintessa is one of the best meritages made in California today. I had a spot at an invite-only tasting at the hottest steakhouse in town. And I would attend, come hell or high water. The lunch meeting was typical; networking and petite filet. Then came some pretentious sommelier from DC prattling on about the merits of toasting oak or punching down.

Now, at the time, I had just accepted my dream position with The Country Vintner. The Quintessa tasting was hosted by the competition. Still, the wines on the table were far too great to miss out on: Caymus, Opus, Profile, Dominus...

Sated with the pleasure of having a three course lunch, I plied my mind with coffee and stepped outside into the BLINDING SNOW. Just great. Richmond, Virginia, in a snowstorm. And I had to drive back and close the restaurant.

The ensuing nightmare consisted of six hours of fishtailing, followed by five seconds of spinning across the interstate. I fell into a trance and my life passed in front of me. The car softly came to rest against a pillow of snowflakes, which had somehow managed to stop my car three inches shy of the guardrail.

I silently said a prayer and thanked the angel who was watching over me. I felt my arms and legs to confirm my life status. I was alive. And even better, the Beemer was unscathed! That stuff they teach you in Driver's Ed was money. I vaguely remembered spinning the wheel and doing God knows what with the clutch, gears, and brake. I was money.

Once the weather broke, I bought myself a new car with the money I had made on my townhouse sale. I knew I was spoiled after the BMW, and silently cursed my father for creating a monster. I settled on a Maxima. I had driven my sister's and loved it, despite the high mileage and outdated body design. It was to be the first car I had chosen, having so far played the car lotto. Now, I ride back and forth to chemo, to the drugstore, to the surgeon's office, to get bloodwork, herceptin. And I am pleased to report that I quite like my ride. Just comfy enough when my bones are aching from the damn Neulasta. Plently of room on the passenger seat for my nausea bag, box of tissues, and bottle of Gatorade. The Maxima has no trouble doing 80, as I am one of those chronically late people with really good intentions.

So, as I drove home from my first meeting back at work since my diagnosis, I thought about my cars as I drunk in the scenery of the interstate. I had a pretty good meeting. Club sandwich, wine discussion, and a fabulous Albemarle Rose, a dry rose made by one Patricia Kluge here in Virginia. The color of the wine was exactly the same color as my K car.

My heart was racing; I adjusted my scarf and raised the blush coolness in the glass to my lips...it was good to be back.

The day's events repeated themselves in my head on the way home. I was happy to see my coworkers, and overjoyed that the wine didn't turn my chemo-sensitive stomach. I turned up the stereo, sipped on a green tea, and sat up a little straighter. As I passed the infamous spot of the doughnut on the interstate, I relished each and every moment that I have been lucky enough to be here. And a few miles later, I smiled as I remembered the Blondie in the K car.