^{I’m In Love With My Car}

I was born with a lead foot. It was very apparent when I was the last over the finish line in second grade P.E., subsequently always being picked next to last for any recess games. I was always a tall kid, so I was often picked to be a human shield for others in dodge ball.

I considered my lead feet a hindrance until I got my driver’s permit. It was March of 1984, when hair was big and dreams of freedom were bigger. I already had a car. It was a navy blue Buick Regal with baby blue interior that my grandmother had bought shortly before she died. I adored that car. I named it the Blue Bomber for the simple reason that the name easily rolled off the tongue and I thought it was bad-ass.

The day I went for my driver’s test, my mother took me to the DMV where urban legend had it that out of the two highway patrolmen administering the test, the white one was mean and flunked you for looking at him sideways. I got the white one.

With nerves about to come out in technicolor ways on my shoes, we approached the car. I got in and buckled my seat belt. Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Highway did a slow walk around, stopped at the rear and barked at me to get out because I had failed. I never beat that 32 second speed record of failing a test.

We walked back in, my nerves were now in the form of steam coming out of my ears in anger. Sgt. Highway looked at my mother and said, ” The tag has expired. Your daughter has failed.” Luckily, my mother said something nice to him that I didn’t hear for the ringing in my ears. He agreed that I could retake the test in a different car with a current tag.

Thirty minutes later, in my aunt’s car with a current tag, we were back at the DMV. Sgt. Highway, now known as Chuckles the Clown, smirked and was ready to give me a proper test. I think there might have been a heart under that bullet proof vest because he let the oopsie on the curb during parallel parking slide. Chuckles kept giggling when he gave me the thumbs up. I was given a card for freedom.

The Blue Bomber and I had many adventures. As I was one of the oldest kids in my class, I was very popular until my classmates themselves turned sixteen. I was enterprising and charged for gas (and booze) money. One night on a double date, we tried to see if the Blue Bomber could be used as a flotation device at Lake Hefner. Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang she wasn’t, and after 3 days of heavy spring rain, the Blue Bomber mercifully never made it into the water. It did take several washings to get all of the red clay off the in and outsides of my poor car. One time she was part of a stain removal experiment when a very drunk boy needed a ride home from a Drama Club trash can punch party. Red Punch, Baby Blue Interior, Bad Idea. Even with all of our misadventures, the car was my escape plan, my closet, my justification for my lead foot.

Oklahoma is a community property state. I left for college in Boston and the Blue Bomber became a commodity in my parents divorce. I came back to Oklahoma and the Blue Bomber was gone. I was sad, but I commandeered my mother’s car and I was back on the road.

Fast forward to a couple of years later after getting my dream radio job, I met Brian Boone, also known as The Man ( both topics explored at length another time). I was still driving my mother’s car. By this time it had no air conditioning and I had abused the hell out of it. Since I was a new girlfriend and he’s a gear head, a nice birthday present, he thought, would be to detail the car I was abusing into a premature death. He switched cars with me at the radio station, thinking that he could detail it himself before my air shift was over. I walked out of the station, but he had not picked up his car. I drove over to his house and saw his legs contorting out one of my car doors. As I walked up to the car, he climbed out and said, ” I thought I would vacuum the velvet seats, but I had a hell of a time breaking through the three inch thick webbing of your hair stuck to the back seat. I will never do that again. Happy birthday. ” He was sweaty and irritated, but at that moment I knew he loved me above all others.

True love blossomed into marriage and family. We started our marriage with big dogs and and a big red 1993 Eurovan. By the time we had children we were thankful that we had the largest minivan on the road. We looked like the Clampetts in the opening sequence for the Beverly Hillbillies when we wanted to take a trip. It was like loading up a FedEx truck. (Been there. Done that. Tell ya later.) with the play pen, highchair, bags, diaper bag, dog crates and toys for two legged and four legged children. It took forever to load up, but we made it work.

After years of making it work, I constantly dreamed of one day owning a two-seater convertible that had only room for an overnight bag, The Man and me. No kids, no dogs, none of their large kid and dog stuff; just us. The Man made it a reality for our 20th anniversary in the shape of a silver Miata. We drove it to Eureka Springs for our anniversary weekend and had room for just us and the ice chest that doubled for an overnight bag. While The Man drove the windy roads at excessive speeds, I felt like I was on a private roller coaster. I am sure people in oncoming traffic thought I looked ridiculous with my arms outstretched above the car and screaming at the top of my lungs. We had an absolute blast!

Six years on, I still drive that Miata to work to the City and home every damn day. I love that little aluminum – wrapped baked potato, but I would love it even more if fools in SUV’s saw me in the lane next to them. It is like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome everyday during rush hour. Sadly, it is not uncommon to have to bail out onto the median because some idiot is texting and doesn’t see my brake lights. I am very lucky to arrive home safely every night. Maybe it’s skills, but chances are that it’s probably a lot of luck.

I am sure that there will be many more cars in my lifetime, but this one, this is true love. I am in love with my car.