My SUV probably never looked worse. And I love it.

The blue paint is faded, and there are pits on the front bumper and a smear of bright green where I tapped the bench next to the driveway.

The interior is beat up, the seats stained after years of driving a carpool to school. One sun visor won’t stay up. The front passenger-side door handle broke off.

But my crappy, 14-year-old SUV has air bags and air conditioning and it’s paid off. My annual registration fee is about $50. I’m driving free. Well, kind of. “So, when you drive, it makes a clickclick-click noise?” my mechanic Bernie asked.

“It’s more like a thump-thumpthump,” I said.

Either way, it didn’t sound good. I know I should consider abandoning the old girl, with her 174,507 miles, creaks and groans. But I put a new transmission in a few years ago, and she’s got new tires. She has more miles in her. I don’t care what kind of car I drive anymore or what it looks like, if it gets me where I want to go.

I admire my friends' self-closing tailgates and heated seats. But I like not panicking if someone parks too close or freaking out over a new door ding.

I tend to hang onto cars; I’ve owned five in my lifetime. And just now, I can’t afford a new car, not with a kid in college. So, I’ll keep her until the repair costs outweigh a car payment. I take her in for regular maintenance in hopes of keeping her on the road.

At the shop, Bernie slid the bill across

the counter. New front axle, transmission service, alignment, oil change, wiper blades and door handle. It’s worth it.

Because my crappy car has been there, the engine turning over every morning, reliably getting kids, backpacks and musical instruments to school, safely delivering us to the beach and camping spots.

I'll be there for her, too.