I said goodbye forever to Big Booty Judy last week.

Judy and I were together for 14 years, or 272,500 miles.

If Judy had been a 3 year old child I adopted, I would have been driving her to college.  My boyfriend, Cameron, came up with that analogy while we were driving her to the new car dealership and I began crying for the second time since it was made real. The afternoon prior, Cameron had nonchalantly reiterated that life with Judy was about to end by reminding me to clean her out that evening. He chuckled regretfully and offered me some fast food napkins from his jacket pocket as a tissue. He also offered that if we converted car years to people years, she would be close to 110 years old. Cameron, too, felt a twinge of the feels for Judy.

Judy, of course, didn’t have a life, and wasn’t a person. She was a machine that reliably served her purpose. But she was more than a machine to me. She and I were together longer than any relationship, pet, house, even material possession I’ve ever owned. She was literally the only constant in my adult life.

And she’s seen some shit.

How can an unremarkable, bland, black, early-2000’s SUV  be so important? She’s so important that not only is she receiving now a proper obituary, but was gendered, named, and treated like part of the family for so many years. There isn’t a simple answer.

Judy was, in fact, just an ordinary SUV to me the first 8 years. Don’t get me wrong. It felt good to own and drive a mostly newish vehicle. I’d never in my life owned a car that new. I took better care of her than I did any previous vehicle because I took pride in her.

I’d thought about giving this great machine a name more for fun off and on for a year or two. After a brief discussion about how “The Montero” had a diva-like, high, posterior-emphasizing stance, my best friend in nursing school, Veronica, gave her the name Big Booty Judy in 2012.

Judy was starting to have some of her first mechanical problems at this time as well. This was the first time Judy’s life was threatened. She had 3 severe oil leaks. One of those had killed 3 alternators in less than a year. When my boyfriend at the time, Chris, said we were going to trade her in for another used car, I cried. I realized in that moment how much I appreciated Judy and how well she had cared for me for so long. I also realized that I had a childish, irrational attachment to an old car that kept breaking.

Judy got under my skin without me realizing it.

After witnessing my dramatic tearful fit over the possibility of losing Judy for good, the next day Chris decided he’d pay to fix her oil leaks. If there was one thing Chris did right, he gave Judy and I six more good years together.

Judy came to be in my life following some interesting car adventures.

In 2003, I was driving my 1989 Ford Escort wagon down a hill in Tulsa after a moderate night of hoodrating when some drunk asshole decided to run a stop sign. I was left with a totaled mess, a stiff neck, and a seat belt bruise across my sternum. I was a full time commercial art student about to graduate with no money, so my dad wanted to be helpful. He decided to buy me a perceivably reliable junker to get me to and from school for the rest of the year.

The first $1,500 car he bought for me, from a mechanic we’ve known for years, was a 1980-something tiny Honda prelude. I was so excited because it had a sunroof. What I was less excited about was how easily it caught on fire. On my drive home after a couple months of owning this thing, flames started shooting out from the center console. By the time I pulled over, the whole front of the car had gone up in flames.

The second $1,500 car dad bought me from the same mechanic was a 1990-something Acura. I was excited again because it too had a sunroof. But then all happiness is fleeting, and it came to an end. The oil light had been “flashing” since I had gotten the car. I told my dad about it, but he brushed it off, so I did too. Again, I was driving home from school, this time it was 9pm and dark. I wasn’t expected home for a couple hours as I had plans to go to a friend’s house. The car broke down in the middle of nowhere. So I did the only rational thing anyone would do in this situation, I cried. I cried and I cried. When I got my shit together, I forced myself outside of the car and attempted to flag down drivers. A young man alone in a pick up was kind enough to pick me up. And since I’m sitting here writing this, it turns out he wasn’t a psychopath killer.

The third car my dad bought me was a little cheaper, a 1980-something $900 Volkswagen Rabbit. Yes, from the same guy. You’d think my dad would think of a different idea, but who am I to judge. Turns out this one didn’t break down commuting from school, but during a trip between Arkansas and Tulsa.

At this point, my mom stepped in to help.

By this time, I had graduated, got a job, and moved to Arkansas.

I was 24 years old when my grandmother died. Turns out she left my mom with a decent inheritance.

My mom had driven by a small family used car lot in Claremore, Oklahoma, and saw what she described as a cute, sporty SUV with my name written all over it: a 2001 Mitsubishi Montero Sport. My mom paid cash so I never had to make a car payment. For that, I’m overwhelmingly thankful.

Judy’s driven around in a few states. Drove her tens of thousands of miles worth of trips between my home in northwest Arkansas and my hometown of Tulsa, all over northern to southern Texas, all over Oklahoma, and Missouri. She’s been on the beach and in plenty of ice and snow. Four wheel drive made that no problem.

I got a puppy in 2009 who’s smell probably never left the inside of Judy. Lilly was accustomed to hopping into the back and going for a ride whether to the park or just out and about. Lilly left her mark by chewing the back passenger seatbelt in half and embedding her thick husky hair into the carpeting.

Back when I was much more of a hoodrat I smoked inside of Judy and thought I could cover the smell by putting baking soda in her ashtray. Yes, she had an ashtray not only in the front console but also in each back passenger door. She had a push cigarette lighter, which I used.

The AC blasted me when I was hot. The heater melted my feet off when I was cold.

A few years ago I left her parked overnight at a bar and came back to her the next day with her windshield busted out. She spent her last 4 years of life with a nice new windshield.

She once had an OU College of Nursing license plate frame attached to her butt until the lettering faded from the sun.

She never had a bumper sticker, because I’m an adult.

This year, Judy’s air-conditioner stopped working at the end of the summer. We decided getting AC service would cost more than she was worth. Up to this point we had been babying her transmission by adding fluid every 6 months due to a small leak. That leak apparently grew, and we got to the point we were hoping we wouldn’t break down on the road every day.

In the end, she didn’t break down on the highway, not even on the way to the new car dealership. Her transmission remained intact. She never caught fire. She never broke down in the middle of nowhere. She never got a flat tire. She never ran into another vehicle or any object at all. She never overheated.

Judy took care of me for 14 years, and for that, soulless machine or not, she deserves to be remembered forever.