While diving in Cozumel a few years ago, we had a spicy, expert dive master on our boat. Lorena was knowledgeable and fun, but took no shit from divers on board – safety first. She was also beautiful. This led to a few friendly inquiries from the single gentlemen in our group. “Married? Got a boyfriend?”
She smiled sweetly and said “The heart has many rooms. Why limit yourself to only one?”
As i continue excavations, clearing the space necessary to accommodate my collection of motorized companions, her message hits home.
Spring has arrived, so i’ve had a few turns driving the Jag. It is lust. Pure, heart-pounding, seat-wetting lust. She has also had her first visit to the shop for a new thermostat assembly. For optimal performance, she demands 91 octane gasoline – the champagne of the petrol pumps. There is no confusion in my mind: she is going to cost me money, give me headaches, and be incredibly high maintenance. But when i hear the throaty growl of 300 horsepower as i accelerate through a tight turn, i get such an intense rush! She is my mistress.
Another annual milestone rolled by in March – the Ceremonial Removal of the Jeep Top. When we are together, we are seamlessly connected and operate as one. Scuffed and rusty in spots, she will never be a comfortable ride. Driving the Jeep is a meditative experience, even as the leaf springs bounce me hard enough to bruise my kidneys. During the heat of summer, sitting on the smoldering vinyl and feeling sweat roll into the crack of my butt, i will grudgingly admit it is not the most comfortable vehicle i could drive. Getting caught topless in a cloudburst isn’t always a good thing. After the sun sets, and we are sailing along a country road, stars overhead, wind in my hair… The scent of lilacs hits me in the face on a summer night… All that is forgotten. i’ve jokingly told my children to “Start digging a hole – i’m going to be buried with her.” She is my soul mate.
With these two taking up much of my garage space, i had to get creative to find a spot for the motorcycle, so he sits angled in the corner in front of the Jeep. He is going to hurt me. He’s too big, bad and rough for me, but i can’t help myself. His power scares me. Even though i use protection, he is capable of causing extreme damage to my body. He also makes me feel wild and untethered. i know better. i’ve had a lot of Physics, and it isn’t going to end well. Nothing but trouble, that motorcycle. He is the bad boy.
With the acquisition of the Jag, i had to move my daily driver outside. The 2005 Honda Civic – the car i inherited from my daughter – doesn’t complain about the eviction. During a ridiculously cold winter, he started every single time i turned the key. He is cluttered with the daily shrapnel from my life – my gym bag, expired drug store coupons, CDs, used Kleenex and about a dozen cloth bags that i use for shopping. He’s my go-to for taking Mom to her medical appointments – the seat isn’t too high, or too low, so it’s easy for her to get in and out. He takes me to work. He takes me shopping. He doesn’t complain when i don’t shave. He is my husband.