My husband has stretched his middle-aged male rite of passage over three convertibles and twelve years. I've never known him to have a hardtop. I should be used to it.
We frequently find men gathered around his car in parking lots, in small worshipful clusters -- The Impromptu First Church of the Midnight Blue Audi TT Roadster.
They see a ruby-lipped blonde with hair whipping wildly in the wind in "their" passenger seat, themselves in wrap-around shades and waving to the cops as they pass at 120 m.p.h. The cops, of course, smile and return the wave in full admiration.
It is a religion, like many, built on wish fullfillment and fantasy. The mythic blonde, travels only with a toothbrush, bikini and spare thong. Her strength is not conversation, so she relishes the wind tunnel effect. Her Malibu Barbie tan remains luminescent all year around.
She and I have nothing in common.
Yet, when he asked the tenative "Which car are we taking?" for a recent Florida run, what he was really saying was "I would look so great driving my car down 95 with all the other guys wishing they were me. Your car is soccer mom boring and has a Buffalo Bills tire cover in the back. Please don't make me be so uncool."
The last time we took his car to Florida I nearly abandoned him to live or die among the alligators in the swamps off the turnpike. I was windburned, sunburned and five hundred miles slow-burned when I finally started shouting. It wasn't pretty. Although he couldn't hear me, he eventually noticed there was a problem. We had to pull in to a rest stop to argue. The fact that I eventually returned to the car was a testament to either our marriage or my fear of gators.
Still, this was a shorter trip and this time would be different. We had to take only an overnight bag. There would be plenty of room in the trunk. He grandly agreed we could stop at the bookstore on the way out of town and pick up some books I had ordered. We had enough room for ALL THREE.
I brought the satellite radio unit from my car thinking I could survive the hours with Court TV, CNN Headline and the comedy channels blasting through his Bose system.
We hit construction delays before Jacksonville. The good news, you can talk while sitting still. The bad news, conversation makes little sense in the heady mixture of sizzling, direct sun and carbon monoxide.
After another 200 miles I stumbled into a Dairy Queen rest room. When I moved the shoulder of my shirt I saw a perfect Betsy Ross white/red stripe. I didn't even have to ask. He put the top up for the rest of the way.
Later that night, we took the top down again as we waited for my brother and his family to come out of their hotel and follow us to our hotel in their car.
My nieces, 12 and 7, audibly gasped when they saw their very cool Uncle Charlie behind the wheel. My brother humbly apologized for their rental sedan.
And the question of which car we'd take next time was settled.




Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs