By Deena BustilloPLAY Editor

The fact that Northwestern’s campus sprawls out along a gorgeous lakefront is wonderful. It’s quite the attraction. But, the picturesque lake is on the verge of becoming a partially solid block of ice, so now I don’t care about it – although I admit I feel bad for the ducks who look seriously cold and confused sitting there in The Lakefill.

What I care about this time of year is that the campus’ other border is Sheridan Road. Now I don’t really mind that my life flashes before my eyes every time I sprint across the speedway; my problem is more fundamental than that. I care that it’s a road, with cars. They could be moving at a snail’s pace, no harm in sight, but I just plain don’t want to see any cars – at all. Why? For one it reminds me that there is another way to get from point A to point B that doesn’t involve lugging 25 pounds of gear. And somewhat more importantly, because it reminds me of my car. And my car is sitting lonely, though toasty, in my California driveway with a for sale sign plastered in the rear window.

Now my lame excuse for an SUV is no gem. There’s no sentimental value attached to the aging hunk of metal that took me to my first lame-o “date,” lost an entire wheel (yes, wheel) on a stormy Friday night and managed to leave me stranded not once but twice this Winter Break. So, I guess I take that back. How many people can actually say they lost an SUV tire in the middle of the night? Or that they had to explain to their groggy, irritated mother that no, they were not lying and yes, they knew they were supposed to be in beddy-by already. Ahh, high school. Ooh, Mom.

I guess it’s maybe time to say good bye to that good ol’ SUV; it’s probably not long for the world whether I like it or not. But the underlying problem with tossing aside my car is letting go of our cherished, love-hate, disastrous relationship that mirrors most facets of my life – most notably the modes of transportation.

I refuse to ride a bike. My younger sister careened into a chain link fence, inches from a ravine, when we were young (Mom was already way ahead, big mistake), so I have surrendered all open-air things with wheels. Especially when a few years later my 60-year-old grandpa rented rollerblades, had them on for two minutes and ended up with a broken wrist. His driveway has such a small incline it might actually slope up, but somehow he managed serious damage. At this point my feet are nearly as deadly – I wore heels out last year, went back to my room, changed into flip-flops and still fell down the cold, hard Bobb stairs.

So, you see, my car gives me tons of problems, but I secretly want to keep it around. You don’t see me selling my feet, now do you? But at this point they might be worth more than the hunk of junk I’m reminded of when I stumble down Sheridan every day.

Medill junior Deena Bustillo is the PLAY editor. She can be reached at d-bustillo@northwestern.edu.