I Miss my Convertible

Earlier in the year I made the decision that, because of age (the cars, not mine) it was time to trade in my convertible.  It had served me well, but, as the repairs become more than a new car payment would be each month, I eventually came to the decision that the time had come.

I didn’t really choose the car I ended up buying as much as it chose me.  My Mother purchased the car, but shortly the day came when she couldn’t drive any more.  It was serendipitous that her car needed to find a new home and I needed to find another car.

That’s how I came to own a chalk-white, Chevy Impala.  This truly is the “white cotton panty, sensible-shoe, take your vitamins” car of adulthood that I never wanted to own.    In short, it’s a grown up’s car, and I have never cared much for being a grown up.  (Deep sigh)  It was a logical decision, like having your teeth cleaned regularly or keeping up with your mammograms. 

Here’s the big disconnect.  When I was driving my convertible I felt free as a bird as I embraced the only form of going topless in the summer that I am willing to consider.   More importantly, from the first time behind the wheel of that car I detected a kinship with other convertible drivers.  Hair blowing in the wind, my stash of fast food napkins taking flight from the back seat floor…we would nod as we blew past one another.  It was a mute acknowledgement of automotive superiority that I learned to appreciate.  Granted, there wasn’t nearly as much nodding going on in the winter time, but nothing is perfect.

This morning I drove in to work and I saw the lucky convertible drivers whipping along the highway, nodding to one another in their secret way.   I felt abandoned to my chalk-white Chevy Impala for the first time.    

It is what it is.  I am the owner of a chalk-white Chevrolet and I must get on with my life.  My insurance carrier appreciates the change…my sun damaged skin likes the switch...my hair isn’t sunburned, either.  There are positives to every change, and I need to get a grip on those things until I either grow up, or talk my husband into a new convertible.

If you are a chalk-white Chevy driver and a woman you’ve never seen before, driving an identical car, nods at you for no apparent reason chances are it’s me, looking for a little hard-top camaraderie.

                                                                           Life is Good