Nearly a year after completing my Ph.D. in English literature, I recently landed what fewer than half of my peers will ever achieve: a tenure-track job. In itself, it’s a dream come true—the culmination of over a decade of college; countless solitary summer days cursing in front of the computer when everyone else is at the beach; and trying to explain to my mother why I make less money than my cousin, who’s a roofer and a high school dropout. Granted, I’ve paid my dues, toiling for years as an anonymous writing instructor at a giant urban university, but I’m still pretty stunned at my good fortune.

Because while I would have been thrilled to accept any job, anywhere, the position is in one of the coolest places in America. Bicycling magazine named it a “#1 City for Cycling.” Outside called it “One of 10 New American Dream Towns.” It has a vibrant music scene and a brand new arts center at the hub of the city. It has the biggest farmer’s market in the country, which for a foodie like me is sheer bliss.

Perhaps I should back up a bit. Actually, my first sensation was one of immense relief. I had expected to celebrate into the wee hours, but after two months of flying all over the country doing job interviews, spending more time with my dry cleaner than with my friends, the call induced a coma-like sleep lasting over twelve hours. When I woke up, instead of elation, it was anxiety that was pumping adrenaline into my bloodstream. What did I know about buying a car?

For people who have been plunking down car payments for years, this may not seem like a big deal, but my time in grad school was like an absurdly prolonged adolescence. Here I am, well into my thirties, and the most expensive things I’ve ever bought are my computer and my bike. (Granted, a kickass Mac and a kickass Cannondale, but still.) I have no assets to speak of and a negative net worth. Inventing delicious soups that will last a week or more; going to the museums only on free days; meeting friends for Sunday basketball instead of Sunday brunch—I have gotten really good at being poor. Now I’m contemplating buying something that will cost more than all of my possessions put together. And let’s not even get started on the insurance.

It’s not that I expect to be rich anytime soon, or ever: the plan now is to spend the next couple of years trying to pay down bills and chip away at loans, maxing out the 401(k) and saving up for a down payment on a house.

Nevertheless, I need to buy a car. This is not a purchase I’d ever felt particularly urgent or excited about. My parents drilled into me that “cars will only break your heart” and made them seem like fickle acquaintances at best. Nor do I see the need for the car to serve as a medium for self-expression or as an extension of my personality. The Fugazi song admonishing “You are not what you own!” seems particularly apt in this regard. My attitude is: if it gets you where you need to go, it’s good enough.

This is certainly true for the car I occasionally drive now: my partner’s 1992 Honda, riddled with rust spots where it isn’t a particularly hideous shade I like to call “Mylanta green.” The tape player is busted and the interior smells funny. But it’s paid for, is reliable as hell, and can be parked on the street without much worry. Anything else would be a liability.

Cars are evanescent properties, not to be trusted. I grew up watching my mom total practically every car she has ever owned. When I was eight, she went through the windshield of her Dodge Omni on the Ward Hill Connector, so busy applying mascara that she failed to notice a car stalled out in the middle of the highway and plowed into it at 55 MPH. Just a few years ago, she flipped her Jetta wagon while trying to juggle a cup of coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. I’m currently waiting to see how the Honda CR-V will meet its demise.

But cars are also such a potent vehicle for fantasy. The new wheels represent a fresh start, a whole new raft of opportunities, a dream come true. As I shop around, I imagine so many other parts of my life coming into focus at last: It has to be rugged enough to see me through the tough winters of the upper Midwest, big enough to carry the bikes and packs (and maybe a canoe!) on various outdoor adventures, safe enough for the kid I hope to have. My partner is pushing for a little hybrid with great gas mileage, citing the imminent collapse of the petroleum-based economy, but all of a sudden I’m beginning to understand why yuppies drive SUVs.

Hang on. Where is this thought coming from? Who am I? What happened to the nerdy DIY chick who happily whiled away hour-long subway rides reading Mojo? The girl who once seriously considered quitting school to be a bike mechanic? The one who gets ridiculed for walking when visiting L.A.? Does a real job have to change everything, turning me into what I once despised?

According to the tourist board of my new home-to-be, over 10% of the city’s population bike commutes year round—in a place where the temperature in January averages only ten degrees. Now that’s badass. Maybe it’s time to buy a balaclava and put off this car-buying decision a little longer.