October 15th, 2012
I’ve never been a car person. I really didn’t care what I drove as long as it worked. But here’s the deal. I’m 47 and I’ve driven a minivan for nine years. I was happy to get the minivan despite the asexual, suburbified, edgeless stereotype. I could cram alotta kids in there and the doors slide!
Before that I drove a Ford, Taurus. Eight years with that sexy baby. I inherited it from my grandpa and couldn’t afford to trade it in for something edgier. There seems to be a theme emerging here.
Prior to that I drove a Honda Civic DX stick-shift. Best. Car. Ever. I miss that little blue devil that saw me through twenty-two to thirty. Things happened in that car that I’ll never confess (midnight car chase from Ukrainian sex traders. Never smile at a Ukrainian).
Something strange has happened. Now I want a status car. I know. Why? Why now have I stooped to such craven, keeping-up-with-the-Joneses desires. Mortality, my friends. It lurks and it skulks. Oh sure, it could be decades away, but who knows? All bets are off after forty.
So here’s what I need to know, do we spend our rainy day dollars on the Infinti G37 sedan? The Lexxus Es? The Audi A6? Or the Hyundai Genesis? I’ve gotta choose right, because, as my father says, I’ll be driving this one until I die. (We Irish are a morbid lot)…
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