. . . and miles to go

My 1999 Ford Contour turned 100,000 miles yesterday. (Turned. Is that the term?) I was disappointed to have discovered this milestone event after the fact, 4 miles after the fact. Thinking back, the landmark moment would have been while I was on the highway, so it would have been risky to stop on the interstate and mark the occasion. I am not sure why it matters. I have with other cars pulled over and paused to celebrate or otherwise observe the event. I'd say, "Kids, wow, look at all those nines become zeros! Cool!" (They'd feign interest, or not, and continue with their electronic game or reading or music listening or dazing out the window.) Or with yet other vehicles I'd set off firecrackers, hire strippers, and shake Pepsi bottles as faux champagne for the gala numerical bonanza.

Yes, one is wise to ask why it matters at all to me. Why should one configuration of digits matter more than any other?

Of course, carried to its logical extenson, that question would also apply to birthdays, anniversaries, et cetera ad infinitum ad nauseam for just about any human endeavor.

It would be so zen-like to say "This Is This" and be at peace with it, be it the numerical commemoration of birth, death, gain, or loss.

Anyway, I figure it is now less than (fewer than?) 10,000 mles before I encounter the exquisite beauty of 111,111.1 miles showing up on the odometer, assuming both I and the car roll that far.

Age quod agis.