Certain things are true about humans: we will never all love each other, women will never be fully equal to men, market forces always win, and we will never be satisfied with our station in life.

Hopefully something in that statement has pissed you off a little. That’s good, because it will put you in my mindset this morning as I ponder the vehicles that have graced my driveways through the last decade.

Don’t get me wrong: maybe there are some zen masters who have blotted out their desire to better their material lives. They are satisfied with their station in life. However, few of us have the power to excise our need to CONSUME. We can fight it, channel it, or defer it. But we will die before it does.

Between me and Michelle, our past & present cars cover nearly the entire spectrum of economy and luxury. A couple cars stand out, because they are better than what 90% of Americans will ever drive. Others stand out because they are more modest than what 90% of Americans drive. And the others? The shapeless mass of normal cars extruded them, mere pseudopods of the blob of middle-American transportation.

They all shared one trait, though: all were ALMOST perfect, and if we just had a little more cash to spend, we could’ve found the perfect car.

I did not shop for my first car: I hunted it. Like a silent Iroquois, I stalked car dealerships in search of a big old Acura Legend— preferably black, but I could cope with dark blue. For three weeks I combed the dealer lots of southern New Hampshire. But I didn’t have enough arrows in my quiver to take down the big game: they were all just a little too pricey.

Dejected and starving (for a car), I waved a white flag at Fort Autofair and made my mark on the treaty they offered me: a four-year old Subaru Legacy. It was perfectly tidy, but it was baby blue and not even all-wheel drive. At least my 17-year-old mind understood that it was better than being consigned to a pestilent reservation—barely.

Fast forward several years: a new Subaru Legacy came into our lives. It was almost perfect—but we kinda wanted the Limited edition, which had a few extra toys. But lucky us, we suffered for less than a year without leather upholstery: a twit in a Jeep wrecked our genuinely beloved Subaru by fiddling with her radio instead of paying attention to a red light.

I won’t numb you with niggling complaints about each of the eight cars we owned over the last ten years. That would be boring and ungrateful. But even my current vehicle, which clearly falls into the “better than 90%” category, sometimes leads to a twinge of regret: maybe I should’ve ponied up a little extra cash for one with a bigger engine.

Here we are, back at my first point: When I had my old baby-blue Subaru, I wanted a car that was just a bit better. It seemed like a black Acura Legend would fulfill my automotive dreams. Today, that Acura would be a pretty big step back. Yet when I look at my current, awesome car, the little needle-stick of desire feels the same as it did back in 1996: perfection dangled in front of me, and I couldn’t reach it for want of a few bucks.

I won’t apologize for this unseemly grasping: that’s the whole point of today’s blog. I may not give a crap about fancy clothes, granite counter tops, boats, iPods, or other accoutrements of the good life. But everyone, including me, desires something a little better than what they have.

I'm not saying that we all want to look good in the eyes of our fellow man. It isn’t about keeping up with the Joneses—though many cars are bought for that reason. Not mine though. I don’t want a Mercedes star to show the neighbors how much better I am than they are. I want cars that my Honda-and-Saab-loving neighbors never heard of, or would even hate: Citroen CX, ZiL 41047, 1976 Cadillac Fleetwood.

Even if I did manage to snag a low-mileage 1976 Fleetwood—and that would rank among the best days of my life—I would surely find myself saying, “Too bad I couldn’t get one with the ultra-rare moonroof, or the fabulous Talisman edition.”

So there you have it: the human condition as it manifests itself in a car nut. I wish I could be satisfied with my cars—make no mistake, they are excellent cars. But no one on this earth gets to skip regret. So I’ll just be grateful that my regrets are small: half a liter, to be precise. That’s difference between the engine in my car and perfection. Or at least the version of perfection I’m grasping for today.