No other man-made device since the shields and lances of the ancient knights fulfills a man's ego like an automobile.
Sir William RootesMy husband is buying a new car today. Not really a "new" car. A 2006 model with 35,000 miles, but new to us. He's driven to Houston to pick it up and will arrive home, elated. Proud of his research and purchase. Thrilled, yet perhaps a little hopeful that one of his sons will be around to share his joy, rather than me.
Not because I didn't want him to get it (his car was ten years old and had 172,000 miles on it), but because cars just don't do much for me. As long as they start, have super cold air conditioning to accommodate hot flashes, and a radio, I'm happy.
Last week, when Bob emailed me the scoop on the car, I wasn't the most enthusiastic. "Do you really like that color of blue?" I wrote back. And then, "How you going to pay for it?"
Reality. Always a killjoy.
Back to cars. Combine my dad, three brothers, three sons, and a husband, I can't tell you how many hours I've spent driving through car lots in my life. (No wonder I learned to read and ride.) Despite that indoctrination, the men in my family don't understand my conceptual disregard for the meaning of a car.
I have to be honest. I don't think I'd understand even if I had a penis. Perhaps that's why my husband eyes my car with disdain and mutters, "Don't ever wash your car. You wouldn't want it to look good."
It's silver. Hides the dirt. Hauls all my crap. Besides, if I was going to clean something, I'd clean my house.
But, being the good wife that I am, in two hours time I'll put on a good face. I'll act excited for him when he drives into the garage. I'll walk around it and ooh and aha and gush. "Oh, so nice, Bob."
Wish me luck. I'm such a crappy liar.