This morning I had the pleasure of driving behind a young girl in a 68 Mustang, as if driving to work on a gorgeous Saturday in spring didn't sting enough. She looked happy and carefree and off to somewhere fun, apparently the damn beast was running well for once. Rub it in Mustang girl.
I drive this:
Why yes it is a Toyota, pre-car of death year. A boring, bland, reliable Toyota. They bought it for me when I got pregnant. At the time I was driving this:
Admittedly it didn't look this cool, call it artistic license, but still it was a '78 El Camino, not the boring sedan I drive now. And it was sweet. 0 to 90 in like 5 minutes, 90 to 0 in an hour and a half. Apparently it was not a mommy appropriate car. Fine. But before that, in the beginning, I was a Mustang girl. I got my '68 'Stang for my 13th birthday. It looked like this:
Again, not that clean, but still. This:
not this:
No, that's not MY actual car. If I showed you a picture of it, you'd know who I was, remember?. . . Anyways, I learned all about cars from that Mustang, all of which I had to forget for that stupid POS foreign mommy-mobile I drive now. Metric what? Which is fine I guess, since the damn thing never breaks down. I mean NEVER. No matter how hard I try. Unlike my baby, which would occasionally stop running while going 70 down the freeway.
And my life is complicated enough without playing auto roulette.
And it's a car, not a status symbol. I do not need my car to define me, which is a damn good thing, 'cause the thing I drive now would define me as a boring play it safe mommy.
Fuck. My car does define me.
Sigh.
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