Clear Coat Optional: Lessons from a Hunk of Junk

We called it Point B, a name based more on faith than track record. It came adorned in four different shades of green, not by design, just by circumstance. The clear coat had quit years ago, and the windows only rolled down when they felt like it, either by hand or by surprise at a bump in the road. It rattled, groaned, and made noises that weren’t found in any manual. But it was cheap, it had four wheels, and it ran. At the time, that was enough.

Point B was never expected to last. That was the whole appeal: low investment, low expectations. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it would push through the week. Each time it started was a small miracle, one my husband and I didn’t take for granted. This wasn’t just any old car. It was our 1996 Saturn sedan, the kind most people overlook but that stubbornly became a beloved four-wheeled family member. Oh, and no matter how hard we floored the gas pedal, it didn’t speed up. It just got louder.

Months after we bought it, the car stopped running. That felt about right. Our indecision left it parked out on the street, unmoving and uncertain. Would it ever run again? We weren’t sure. Mechanics, especially mobile ones, charged a premium just to take a look. Considering how little we’d paid for the car, spending a few hundred more just to diagnose it didn’t sit well. There had to be a better, more budget-friendly option.

During a string of calls to local shops, my husband finally heard back from one mechanic. Like the others, he wouldn’t be in our area for weeks, but unlike the others, he didn’t leave us hanging. Based on what the car was—or wasn’t—doing, he offered a light diagnosis over the phone. If he was right, the part would cost $20, and my husband could do the repair himself.

We didn’t get our hopes up. But the mechanic was right. The part cost $20, and my husband installed it with no issue. Just like that, the car was back in action. It wasn’t just a glorified paperweight with tires anymore.

We got a few more weeks out of it before the radiator started to crack, no longer able to keep the engine cool. The more we drove, the worse it got. The crack deepened, and the engine ran hotter and hotter.

On its final trip with the old radiator, we loaded the backseat with two-liter soda bottles and gallon jugs of water. I followed behind as my husband drove the Saturn. Each time water gushed from beneath the car, I honked, and we’d both pull over. He’d refill the radiator, slam the hood shut, and we’d carry on. We repeated this routine at least six times before we finally made it home, engine still intact somehow. A few YouTube tutorials later, my husband swapped out the radiator. Mechanic skills, officially leveled up.

We had invested enough time and emotional energy into this vehicle that a makeover felt earned. Honestly, it’s a miracle my husband’s OCD let the mismatched madness go on as long as it did. The Saturn was still wearing several clashing shades of green, and it was starting to get to him.

He tried to color-match one of the greens, but no such luck. When in doubt, he defaults to black. Not just any black—the blackest-blackedy-black he could find. This wasn’t ordinary paint either. Somewhere in his search, he discovered truck bed liner. Most people use it to coat the inside of a pickup so things don’t slide around. He used it to repaint a beloved sedan.

I’m almost certain the manufacturers didn’t intend for it to go on the outside of a car, but there was no turning back. The whole body got the treatment. As a finishing touch, he spray-painted the hubcaps a bright metallic silver. It wasn’t subtle, but it looked… shockingly good.

The result was… almost breathtaking, at least to anyone who’d seen it before. What a difference a single color made. For the first time in its life, the car looked—dare I say—intentional.

Originally, it probably had a one- or two-star crash rating. But now? With its new rugged armor? We estimated a solid three- or four-star upgrade. Completely unverified, of course, but it looked tougher. That had to count for something.

The best part? It was hail proof. We found out during a storm that left every other car on our street dotted with dents. Ours came through without a scratch. We weren’t even driving it that day. It just sat there in all its gritty glory, unfazed.

With its new coat, the Saturn might have shined if it had a clear coat to begin with. The flat-black finish gave it a bold look, but the real perks were unexpected. While filling up with gas one afternoon, we learned something important: gas station salesmen won’t try to upsell clear coat protection if your car doesn’t have any. We’d been granted immunity.

On spring and summer Saturdays, we loved hitting garage sales. Thriftiness was a sport, and we were seasoned players. We’d find bargains on things we’d never pay full price for in a store, which made the hunt all the more satisfying.

One Saturday morning, we were cruising from sale to sale in Point B when we hit a massive pothole, the kind that feels like it might swallow the car and spit it back out. We held our breath, bracing for damage—but we were in the Saturn, so we weren’t that worried. As soon as we hit the rut, a piece of the dashboard broke free and launched into the air. It had been cracked for a while, and that bump was its breaking point. Our laughter could probably be heard down the block. My husband was crying from laughing so hard and couldn’t see to drive. We had to pull over just to catch our breath.

Point B taught me aggressive contentment. Not the soft kind where you pretend everything is fine, but the kind where you stare down what you have, choose to see the good in it, and keep going. Sure, the grass always looks greener somewhere else. There’s always going to be something newer, nicer, or shinier to drive. But when we drove this car, we were just grateful we didn’t have to walk. It never left us stranded. Somehow, it always got us where we needed to go.

When you don’t have a lot, you get two choices: wish for what you think you need or decide to be happy with what you already have.

There wasn’t much to the Saturn, but it earned its name. Point A to Point B. Every time. We joked about installing a roof rack for Plan B—a bike—but never got around to it.

I cried the day we sold it. Not because of what it was, but because of what it gave us. Mobility. Memories. A million moments I wouldn’t trade.

So when faced with a choice between contentment and covetousness, choose thankfulness. You might be surprised how far it’ll take you!