The skies are a cloudless cobalt blue, the sun is blasting overhead, and temps are over seventy. At long last, spring has arrived in Sacramento. What better way to celebrate than removing my top.
Since I was raised in the Midwest, not the Riviera, my version of topless is taking my classic roadster out for a spin. My convertible is a classic because it’s old. Kind of like her owner. She’s also a pain in the a..
No comments please. My Jag was purchased over the internet, sight unseen, from a used car dealer in Phoenix. It was purchased for one reason only. It’s powder blue and it matches my eyes.
Gosh. I am such a girl! My car even has a name. Sweet Caroline. She’s a classic beauty but definitely a high maintenance gal and I think she’s having an affair with my mechanic. I used to angst every time I drove sweet Caroline because inevitably something would ping, wheeze, or kah-thunk. I just hate when she kah-thunks.
But there is nothing like the incredible feeling of Caroline in full gear, hugging the curves of windy country roads, the wind whipping my hair in every direction, the sound of Pat Benatar blasting out of the speakers (am I dating myself, and do I care?) My friends in the Hot Flash set who also go topless, compare us to those middle-aged men who don their weekend leathers and hit the highway on their Harleys.
Caroline is also quite the “guy magnet.” And I’m not referring to my cadre of mechanics. Cute young men constantly follow me, honking as they drive by. Sure, most of the time it’s because my Victoria’s Secret catalogues blew out of the backseat and on to their windshield. But when Caroline and I take to the road we have ATTITUDE.
Did I mention she matches my eyes?
And if a bird occasionally drops a present on our shoulder we merely brush it off. Wouldn’t life be dull if we didn’t have to deal with a little s..t every now and then?