My steering wheel looks like a post-op facelift recipient. Bits of white fabric stick out here and there from among the wheel's torn center. The little tab that is, as it turns out, the horn, laps outside the torn lip of its once cozy nest like a lank tongue.

Similarly damaged is that typically forgotten space above the glove box, the one that in most cars is labeled "airbag."

I never thought much about airbags until mine deployed Saturday. Now I can't stop thinking about them, and envying the unknowingly-so-fortunate drivers whose automobile dashes still contain them.

Sadly, my car's interior carnage is far worse than the incident that prompted it. And I have no one but myself to blame.

It's not that I wasn't paying attention. I just wasn't paying attention to my driving. Instead, I was looking for a store, cutting across a vast, empty parking lot, my eyes fixed on building signs.

Too late I saw a raised curb, the same color as the concrete lot - rushing toward me. I hit the brakes with minimal effect, slamming to a stop against the curb with a loud bang.

The airbags responded like military paratroopers crouched and waiting to serve their entire lives. They surged forth proud and full, showering the interior of the car with a fine dust and filling it with a bad, lingering odor.

Within seconds, their glory spent, the bags deflated. They sagged withered and depressed looking toward the floor.

I'm not sure their heroic efforts were truly necessary. But they left me with a couple of strong impressions-- one physical, in the form of a red, triangular-shaped burn mark on my right forearm.

The other, mental: I was impressed. Perhaps they'd over-reacted, what some might call a little premature evacuation. But what service! How reassuring to know such protection existed in the face of a true emergency.

Except, of course, that was no longer true. My inflatable security guards had come and gone in a puff of smoke.

Having seen them in action, I felt naked and vulnerable without them.

The already time-ravaged car survived the accident relatively unscathed. But I saw my hope of driving it through another winter fade as abruptly as the airbags themselves.

I began the search today for its replacement. I spent my lunch hour on Colfax considering a dark purple Honda Civic. When I asked for its history, the dealer shrugged. "It came from Arizona. That's all I know."

I stared at it suspiciously. Didn't they smuggle drugs, illegal immigrants and bad tchotchkes from Arizona? Furthermore, the car was in a small dealer's lot on West Colfax: Bad ju-ju indeed. I could have done a CARFAX check and learned the truth of its background. But like the imagined life of a heavily tattooed guy on a barstool, I was already convinced the tale would be disturbing. Some things are better left unknown.

Instead, I drove to Boulder after work to test drive a newer, privately owned Honda Civic housed in a four-car garage attached to a mansion that overlooks the flatirons. I sized the situation up quickly. These people knew how to care for their finances, and by extension, likely their cars. My suspicion was justified.

This car was royal blue and pristine, its only owner an international traveler whose mother wanted another parking space more than she wanted to store her son's sedan. The instant I saw its shiny blue bumper jutting out from the garage, I knew this was my car. I quelled the impulse to stroke its rear-view mirror and croon, "Hey honey, you ready to stop all this foolishness and come home now?", quite certain this would affect the negotiated price.

It wasn't just the color, condition, custom stereo, smooth ride or sassy butt. A single, small feature told me this was my vehicular soulmate. It was nearly hidden inside the front door, tucked down by the driver's seat. The letters were hard to make out in the shadowy lighting of a garage, so I traced my fingers over them just to be sure and confirmed my great hope: "Side airbag."

"Come to Momma!" I whispered to the car, then stood, furrowed my brow with what I hoped suggested serious consideration, and made my offer.