My four-wheel Vespa was not one of their world-renowned motor scooters. It was a car. A really small car. I don’t think my mother ever forgave me. “That’s probably the dumbest purchase you have ever made.”

I bought the little red car during my junior year of college. No longer living on campus, it was a challenging year of half college credits and a full-time job. And to make it work, I had to commute 28 miles to work, 12 miles to Boston University, then 20 miles home each day. A 60-mile triangle. My bicycle was not up to the job.

I waitressed on Cape Cod for three summers, saving my tips with grand plans to snag some wheels. I was thinking maybe a well-used 10-year-old Pontiac. But once I spotted this brand-new adorable little car, I was hooked. It was different and it was cute… a deadly combination for a 19-year-old with $900 burning a hole in her pocket.

The tiny coupe was a hair over four feet wide and just nine feet long. It weighed under 800 pounds – with an empty gas tank. The tank took two gallons of gas, which I had to mix with 2% kerosene from another small tank. Once, while I was mixing, someone asked me which end the popcorn came out.

The fuel tanks were in the back, next to the 2-cylinder engine – one step up from a lawn mower. Somehow, I managed to ignore the fact that it was made of sheet metal. It sounded tinny – because it was. My clown car look-alike got 60 mpg, but the terrific everyday savings came at a price. I could only crank her up to 50 miles per hour – and that was usually heading downhill. With a tailwind.

I could park it by pulling head-on into a curb and still not stick out beyond the width of a normal car. That little space-saving trick cost me a few tickets from the B.U. campus police. The car attracted a lot of attention. It really was shaped like a toy. I could take along a passenger, but anybody sitting on the rear shelf had to be small enough to sit sideways – preferably under eight years old. I never wanted that responsibility, so I usually put either my textbooks or two bags of groceries behind the seats. Perfect fit.

I was dating a medical student whose irreverent friends thought moving the car was great fun. I would head to my parking space after dinner to … nothing. The car was nowhere in sight. Very scary for me the first time, and nowhere near as hilarious as they thought. I found it once on a tennis court, once behind a firehouse, and once locked in a delicatessen for the night. The older deli owner unleashed a fury on me I have never forgotten – even though I wasn’t guilty.

The crazy med students had a lot of fun at my expense. I was stopped by a trooper for defacing my license plate. “What? I don’t understand, officer.” He explained that substituting the word GUANO over the state name MASS was not acceptable and carried a substantial fine. I was mentally dividing the fine among the merry medicos when the trooper decided my shock was genuine – and let me go with a warning.

The Boston police officer was not as kind. He found the adult cadaver leg hanging out from under the engine lid somewhat questionable. Unaware of its presence, I couldn’t explain it – and the bad boys did pay that fine – after claiming me at the station house. Eventually, I wised up and completed a walkaround inspection every time I drove away from those jokesters.

I think the cheesy chassis was only spot-welded. I learned that the hard way on the highway driving to work one cold December morning. I was in the middle lane, hit a small hole in the road, and winced at the bump – just as the driver’s door fell off into the passing lane. I don’t know how the oncoming drivers avoided it. Eventually someone slowed down, stopping the traffic, while I managed to drive to the breakdown lane. I drove around for over a frigid week with the door tucked behind my seat before I could get it repaired.

I have no idea how I managed almost two years out of what I finally conceded was a hunk of junk. Some lessons we must learn ourselves.

I waited four years before owning another car. A brand new, sparkling Mustang convertible, fresh off the showroom floor. It wasn’t cute. It was drop-dead gorgeous and had a Thunderbird engine.

My mother said it was one of the smartest purchases I ever made.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren, Pa.