Because our old Subaru is not entirely reliable (though we recently upgraded her to assisted living from being on hospice) from time to time I rent a car to do my errands. I always ask Budget for a nice, little compact, but Friday the rental guy asked if I wanted a free upgrade to a Mustang. I said yes. I mean, who wouldn't? (Well, probably lots of people, actually. But not me).
So for 24 hours I drove a car that goes vroom! and responds to a touch of the accelerator with a surge rather than a faint complaint followed by a reluctant lift, the difference between a go-go teen and a worn down if still game middle aged guy both getting up off a couch. The difference, you understand, is not merely one of style or degree but of perspective. There is potential trouble, the geezer understands, in rising from here where it is comfortable; life is not all adventure, son, and even if it is an adventure some of those can be very, very painful.
In this metaphoric world, my Mustang was about 14. And four cans into the Red Bull.
Not that I'm complaining. I am enough of a Guy that I think it's pretty damn cool to drive around in a sky blue, brand new muscle car for a few hours. I drove 50 on streets I haven't taken over 35 in ten years. I unnecessarily zoomed past people going slower in the other lane. This thing had lights on the lights in the interior. The threshold of each door had a lighted MUSTANG on it that looked pretty damn cool at night when you got in the car. I got admiring looks from pimply teenagers and fellow old guys. I preened.
Then I heard myself. It was me getting admiring looks? This car, not even mine, was garnering this attention and making me feel all powerful and edgy. My whole adult life has been the search for a way to subvert the idea that my external reality represents who I really am and a 'Stang comes along and hijacks my psyche for an afternoon? Fun, but in the grand scheme of things, I am more my sad, brave Subaru station wagon than I am this rod. In the end I felt a little silly, another 55-year-old geriatric with a new toy. I was glad to get it back to the rental lot and walk home.
Nonetheless, I wouldn't mind having some of that vroom back in the old bones, to think that the rumble I feel is raw power rather than the result of digestion. A boy can dream.
So for 24 hours I drove a car that goes vroom! and responds to a touch of the accelerator with a surge rather than a faint complaint followed by a reluctant lift, the difference between a go-go teen and a worn down if still game middle aged guy both getting up off a couch. The difference, you understand, is not merely one of style or degree but of perspective. There is potential trouble, the geezer understands, in rising from here where it is comfortable; life is not all adventure, son, and even if it is an adventure some of those can be very, very painful.
In this metaphoric world, my Mustang was about 14. And four cans into the Red Bull.
Not that I'm complaining. I am enough of a Guy that I think it's pretty damn cool to drive around in a sky blue, brand new muscle car for a few hours. I drove 50 on streets I haven't taken over 35 in ten years. I unnecessarily zoomed past people going slower in the other lane. This thing had lights on the lights in the interior. The threshold of each door had a lighted MUSTANG on it that looked pretty damn cool at night when you got in the car. I got admiring looks from pimply teenagers and fellow old guys. I preened.
Then I heard myself. It was me getting admiring looks? This car, not even mine, was garnering this attention and making me feel all powerful and edgy. My whole adult life has been the search for a way to subvert the idea that my external reality represents who I really am and a 'Stang comes along and hijacks my psyche for an afternoon? Fun, but in the grand scheme of things, I am more my sad, brave Subaru station wagon than I am this rod. In the end I felt a little silly, another 55-year-old geriatric with a new toy. I was glad to get it back to the rental lot and walk home.
Nonetheless, I wouldn't mind having some of that vroom back in the old bones, to think that the rumble I feel is raw power rather than the result of digestion. A boy can dream.
Whoa, leadfoot, where's the fire?
ReplyDeleteYeah, it's fun to play outside of our lifestyle every once and a while, isn't it?