The senior citizen in the parking lot

How old is my truck?
It is so old that I need a key to open the door (though I never lock it--what for?), but I don’t need a key to start the ignition (I don’t know how this happened but it seems these days I can just turn it on, much like a light switch).
It is so old that I bought one of the first models at the inception of this particular line of trucks, and I am still driving it even though after a long and happy history, the line has been discontinued.
It is so old that no one asks me to pick up prominent visitors at the airport anymore for fear that I will be driving them in THAT TRUCK.
It is so old that I’ve stopped ever going to a drive-through car wash. I’m afraid that the brushes will cause the sides to collapse on me much like a deck of cards and I’ll be devoured by the steely swirling monster bristles.
It is so old that… okay, enough. It is old. But I have no reason to discard it. It starts, it moves, it doesn’t guzzle gas. Can one demand more of a vehicle?

There is the image issue. I remember many years back when I drove some law students to the court house, one said “uh, we always sort of pictured you driving a SAAB.” I felt that to be a complement and it was disturbing to know that I had shattered a classy myth. From there, it is but a small drop to appearing for class in clothes that belong to the last decades, having vinyl furniture in your office, and generally exhibiting a loss of pride in the aesthetic presentation of oneself and one’s surroundings. I’m keeping up with the other stuff so far, but I’m on alert for signs of decline.