I’ve done some stupid things in my day. That regrettable night in New Orleans immediately comes to mind. Then there was the time I boldly approached a very famous (and tall) basketball player and asked, “How ya doin’, Lew?,” not realizing the former Mr. Alcindor Jr. had recently changed his name to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. (Hey, I was 17. I wasn’t exactly up on current sports news.) And who could forget The Perm of 1977? Not a good look for anyone.

But I’ve done smart things, too.

I married a good man. Invested in my 401K early on. Bought Apple at $22 a share. (Not really. I’ve just always wanted to say “I bought Apple at 22.” You know, like one of those high rollers.)

One of the wisest things I’ve done lately – and forgive me for tooting my own horn – is to purchase a car in exactly the same color as dirt.

When my husband and I traded in the family minivan three years ago, we chose a Toyota Highlander in a hue called Millennium Silver Metallic. After owning vehicles in Canary Yellow, Titan Red, Aqua Pearl and Oldsmobile’s generic white, I was ready for a color that could help me stretch the time between car washes to the max.

I’ve never been one of those fussy auto enthusiasts. You won’t catch me in a bathing suit every weekend on the driveway, washing and waxing my ride. (Note to self: Stop wasting precious space pointing out something so completely obvious to your readers.) In my lifetime, I’ve used coin-operated car washes only three times, preferring the automatic drive-thrus where the only effort required is folding your mirrors and stopping on a dime at the red light (an acquired skill, I’ve learned, if you want to avoid whiplash).

The interior of my car can best be described as a giant junk drawer with air bags. Passengers daring to ride with me are subject to a litany of apologies, disclaimers and instructions before they open the shotgun door:

“Sorry about the mess”

“I was going to clean this up tonight.”

“Just throw that stuff in the back. WAIT! Not the taco salad!!”

It’s not that I’m a TOTAL slob. But there are so many things to keep clean in life – windowsills, fingernails, lingerie, grout – and only 24 hours in a day.

Which brings me back to why I love my Millennium Silver Metallic Highlander. I can go days, weeks, (even months, in the right conditions) before that thing looks dirty. There’s something about the glittery steel-gray finish that blends beautifully with dust, grit and grime.

It’s not until I accidentally rub up against it, causing massive amounts of dirt to cling to my clothes, that I even consider taking the car for a wash.

That is, unless one of those sneaky auto graffiti artists gets to it first.

Evidently, there are creative people in this world for whom a dirty car is an irresistible draw. (You’ll excuse the pun.) In the past, I have discovered smiley faces, rainbows, professions of love (“Jake + Julie”), and, occasionally, pornographic hieroglyphs etched on my windows and side panels. While I’m quick to erase naked body parts, I don’t mind rainbows, smiles and love notes. I’ll usually take them for a spin for a couple of days before washing them off, if only to give Jake and Julie some free pub. (I’m a sucker for young love.)

What I DO mind, and what I was horrified to spy on my hatchback window this week, were the dreaded words: WASH ME.

“OK, OK. Hardee-har-har. I get it,” I said. “It’s as if my car is trying to tell me something. That’s hilarious, sneaky auto graffiti artist. No! You’re not an artist. You’re nothing but a two-bit, passive-aggressive vandal with a filthy finger. How DARE you! YOU try negotiating streets strewn with snow melt, salt and sludge puddles from construction areas, and tell me if YOUR car survives unscathed. Of all the nerve!”

Of course, I ranted and raved while high-tailing it to the nearest car wash. Because when I leaned in to wipe the humiliating “WASH ME” away, I covered the front of my new black coat with a thick layer of Millennium Steel Metallic muck.

Not a good look for anyone.