My first love was a car. I’m not ashamed of that fact. It was a 1976 Camaro and worthy of that love. Red with a white vinyl hard top it was love at first site. I was a rock n roll princess in that car, and had am eclectic soundtrack to match. Poison. AC/DC. Ratt. Motely Crue. Ohhh…. I was a rock n roll princess.
I started the college track, the one where I made Dean’s List and finished with a MA in English and a finished Novella, in that car. I had confidence. I had adventures. Driving to the store, to work, anywhere was an adventure in that car. R and I would travel an hour to go see a band in a bar, wind whipping through our hair as I pressed the accelerator and DROVE.
I was living the American Dream.
Now I got a broke down Neon. No money, not even to buy a rattletrap. SIGH. I feel like I’m trapped in the American Nightmare. I know that there are other people out there in the same, or worse situations. But it always feels so much worse when it’s your own version.
I love the beach. My son, 4 years old, has never been. Only a fraction of that is because of money. Some of it, too, is that the adventure wasn’t complete. We needed a cool car. A reliable car. A fun car.
My dream car? A candy apple red Chevrolet Camaro. I’ll admit, though, that if I had a yellow one with a black stripe down the middle… Well. I’d get the next generation’s American Dream into overdrive.
Of course it isn’t practical. Of course. I’m not stupid. Gas, insurance, blah blah blah. We’re talking dreams here. I’m older, and so are my friends. Not sure they could handle the back seat. Or that I could handle a car seat in a back seat that folds forward. But if they had a car that fit my life… And made me feel like HRH Mommy? (And okay, if I had the money…)
Ohhh… Money would be a good thing. Travel. A real home. And a kickin’ car. A car worthy of a soundtrack. A life that reflects my dreams, and not one that I want desperately to wake up from.
(I promise to be more upbeat next time)