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1984 Trans Am. Not quite mine, but as close as I could find.
She was beautiful . . . the perfect balance of flash and class . . . long and lean with just the right amount of curve. Her voice had that low, throaty growl men are powerless to resist. She inspired desire in all that laid eyes on her and no one could avoid looking. She was every teenage boy’s wet dream and the answer to any male midlife crisis.
She wasn’t my first dance, but once I felt her power surging through me as the pavement was devoured by her sleek, sloping frontend, there was no going back. She forever eclipsed the allure of the petite, foreign cuties I had boogied on down the road with before. I sold the TR8 and let the spouse-of-the-moment have the Alfa Spider. I stopped lusting after the 911.
There was something about the weight of her and the way her low-profiled, 101-inch base hugged the road. I was never happier than when I was wrapped in her butter-soft leather, Recaro seats pushing the RPMs toward redline. She was raw power and sex appeal. She was in-your-face with not one wit of apology about her. All-American muscle – built-to-spec down to the factory-painted, Vette louvers on her rear window – she was special ordered by a retired cop. He may have had her built, but she was meant for me.
I left her behind with all my other dreams when I fled to Washington. She was a California girl in every respect. It’s where she belonged. T-tops and ground effects weren’t designed for the road and weather conditions where I was going. I needed four-wheel drive, not cross-fire fuel injection. My heart broke as I watched her pull away ablaze in all her glory . . . seducing her new driver as she once had me.
I couldn’t replace her if I wanted to . . . she was a once in a lifetime love. I’m good with my current little, front-wheel drive, fuel-efficient model. It meets my needs. Still, when I close my eyes, I can feel the wind in my hair as I would fly down the open desert highway – tops off, engine in overdrive – behind the wheel of my ’84 Pontiac Trans Am. Don’t call her a Firebird or I’ll have to hurt you. Anyone even thinks firechicken and they’re going down! And you thought I was going to be all serious and stuff. *wink*
What really makes men and women different? I think I’ve found another defining point of difference. Which would you pick? I’m not saying there aren’t crossovers. I struggled with the question. I have had my eye on a sweet, little Pontiac Solstice for a while, nice roadster . . . red with all the bells and whistles. I was actually putting money away to buy it.
I also believe that what we live through impacts our response. If men had babies and endured the ravages childbearing bestows on our bodies, they would be foregoing the sports cars too. Yes, I gave up my hot, little sports car in favor of one last shot at a hot, little body. I’m shocked I did it! Even now it seems so superficial and shallow to me.
I have been working hard on the whole health and fitness thing for some time now. I’m in great shape and workout everyday. I do it because it makes me feel good. There are byproducts though. I’m more fit than most 20-somethings. I started looking younger too. Men are interested in me “that way” again. People treat me differently. I like it.
It wasn’t good enough anymore to look good “in” clothes; suddenly, I found myself yearning for the half-naked days of beachwear and tank tops, shorts and minis, bare midriffs and belly-button rings. Having children and years of yoyo dieting had taken their toll on my previously unappreciated physique. I’m not so old yet as to not care.
I embraced my narcissism . . . quit smoking . . . cleared out my savings accounts . . . let a surgeon carve up a perfectly healthy body and why? Is it vanity? Have I finally reached that “age?” Have I succumb to commercial and societal pressure to be forever young and beautiful? OR . . . Has this always been a part of me? Is it only now that I have the means to do it? To be honest, its probably some of all of it.
Let’s put it in a box and call it “mid-life crisis” . . . the final culmination of disposable income and facing of one’s own mortality. One of my bosses bought a bright, yellow, convertible Vette last year. He said he had always wanted one and could finally afford it, so why not? Well, truth be known, I always wanted perky breasts. Why not? I never had them . . . till now.
Yes, I plan to be in shape to go toe-to-toe with the BowFlex grandma by this summer. I think I can take her! So what’s left but to save up for a tropical cruise and find that perfect bikini? Aloha!
Miss Demure Restraint 