I Wish I Could Treat All My Cars Like My Wife Treats Her Lexus

The way my wife sees cars and the way I see cars couldn’t possibly be more different. She sees them largely as appliances that help you get around, whereas I see cars almost like pets — character-filled machines with soul, and things that should be cherished. Neither of us is wrong, and we respect one another’s views, but I have to say: Sometimes I wish I could treat my cars like she treats hers.

My wife, Elise (Not Her Real Name), does not abuse or mistreat her car by normal-people’s metrics. She just uses it. Hers is a 2017 Lexus RX350, a vehicle that a few years ago I would have told you is a soulless beige appliance with zero soul — just a snoozefest of automotive boredom. But I’ve since changed my mind.

I’m not saying her Lexus is an exciting car, but it actually does have some soul, and in fact, you can find soul in almost any car. This Lexus’ soul comes from the fact that it’s just so good at fulfilling its intended purpose. This thing is meant to be a reliable, comfortable, practical suburban commuter, and as I said in my review titled “Driving My Girlfriend’s Lexus RX 350 Made Me Realize That The Most Boring Car On Earth Is Also Excellent,” I think it’s a truly excellent crossover SUV. Arguably one of the best ever made. And that alone means it’s more than just an appliance.

From that review:

My girlfriend sometimes gets upset when people call her car boring. It seems like an insult to a car that she thinks is so great. Are people saying she’s wrong?

No. She’s absolutely right. It’s an excellent car, and Lexus should be commended for building something that perfectly aligns with what she and so many other consumers are looking for: The ultimate no-bullshit luxury SUV. That’s what the Lexus RX350 is. You buy it, you’re comfortable, you’re confident, you’re safe, you rarely have to worry about significant mechanical issues, the dealership will give you a great service experience (my girlfriend actually enjoys going to the Lexus dealer, which says a lot about what Lexus is doing right), and the car just demonstrates its competence every time you’re behind the wheel. It fades into the background, and lets you live a life where cars are not at the forefront.

Anyway, this blog isn’t about how good the Lexus RX is, it’s about how my wife uses hers. You see, while my respect for the Lexus RX means I no longer see it as an appliance, my wife definitely uses it as one. And if I’m completely honest: I wish I could do the same with my daily-driven BMW i3S.

For example, one day she opened her car’s rear hatch in a parking garage, and the taillight hit one of the hanging pipes, leaving a chip:

“Oh, you damaged your light,” I told E(NHRN). She walked around, took a look. “Where?” she asked. I pointed out the damage. “What, just that little chip? That’s fine.” She’s right. It is fine. She went on with her day, happily and merrily and joyously. My day would have been ruined. She’s clearly doing it right, I’m doing it wrong.

Then one day she backed up into the vertical garage door track, leaving scrapes and a dent on her rear quarter panel. Look at this carnage:

“Woops!” she said as the horrifying screeches left lifelong imprints in my mind. She pulled the car from reverse into drive, repositioned the car, and backed out. We stopped to look. “Eh, it’s fine!” she said. And went on with her day.

I, meanwhile, have had nightmares about that horrible noise, and that destruction of a painted panel that cannot be unbolted from a car — the dreaded quarterpanel damage. It still haunts me; my wife doesn’t think about it. Ever.

Then there’s the door-opening situation. I’m not saying my wife is careless about opening her door, but when she has to get into and out of her car, if there’s a tight space between her door and a wall or pillar, she will rest the door on that wall or pillar. “I need the space!” she says, as that door taps the concrete, sending a solitary, involuntary tear down my face and ensuring a second therapist booking to follow up that garage door fiasco.

Speaking of garage door fiascos, one day while pulling her car out of our garage, I accidentally hit the wrong garage door button, sending the door BANGING down right onto the Lexus’ roof! As I was driving slowly, the metal bottom grabbed the paint and scraped it until the garage door could figure out what was going on and slide back up out of the way.

The bang and scratch left me alarmed. I peeked onto the roof, and though the scratches are hard to see in the light, they are there. My wife literally couldn’t care less. The scratches are on the roof, after all.

Then there’s the time an almost-90-year-old guy crashed into our rear bumper and our insurance company somehow blamed us. My wife was obviously not thrilled about State Farm not placing the blame on a man so out-of-it he didn’t even realize he’d gotten into a crash, but as for the damage? I wiped it off with a moist cloth, and though there are still some scratches visible, my wife thinks the car looks great.

I meanwhile, freak out over every single thing that happens to my BMW i3S, to the point where I spent thousands of dollars installing XPEL PPF just so that I can avoid paint chips and door edge scratches.

Seriously, I even wrote a whole article about a tiny scratch I got on my mirror from a lane-splitting motorcyclist:

Look at how ridiculous this is:

That scratch wiped off to look like this:

Why am I even mentioning a tiny bit of roughness left on that mirror?:

Every time my wife gets into my i3, she throws her keys onto my eucalyptus dashboard, and I cringe. “Careful with that!” I say. “Oh, sorry!” she replies, literally not knowing what the hell I’m on about. There’s a cubby on my dashboard; why can’t she just use it? Sometimes she brings a backpack with her in the passenger’s seat footwell; “careful not to push that bag against the lower dash, since the white leatherette will get marked,” I tell her. When she opens the door in parking garages and the edge touches a wall, I always get annoyed.

The result is that I don’t think she enjoys riding in my car (a car which, to be clear, isn’t exactly a rare sports car, it’s a small daily-driven city car). It’s not that she’s careless, it’s that she just doesn’t see things the way I see them. It’s a car. You use it to get you around. If a space is tight and the door has to touch a wall, so be it? If you get a scratch here and there, so be it. That’s part of owning a car.

I wish I could treat all my cars like she treats hers. Her Lexus looks good; it’s not a steaming pile at all. It has a few scuffs and scrapes here and there, but she’s not constantly worrying, and she can get the absolute most out of her machine without being in a bad mood all the time.

Why is it that for me to enjoy a car without stress it has to be an absolute steaming beater? Why can’t I just enjoy my cars, stress-free, well before they become rustbuckets that lower my neighborhood’s property values?

I’m doing it wrong, she’s doing it right.