Wheels

It's been over a month now since I've been relegated to driving a nondescript, American made rental car in lieu of my small, zippy car.

And what a rough month it's been on the psyche!

There's nothing quite so aging as being stuck in a silver "sedan" that says practical as loud as its horn says "MOVE, I'm a woman hellbent on getting to the grocery store... it's double coupon day!"

Encased in the rental, I've felt as nondescript and sluggish as I've always imagined middle age would feel. When the automatic door locks engage, I don't feel safe but burdened by anonymity, not to mention the creeping cost of fueling this gas-guzzler. It doesn't help that the radio stations seem to pick up smooth jazz, NPR, and oldies with not a bit of static, while the signals from more "hip" stations grow increasingly weak.

(Did I just use the word "hip"?)

Putting the pedal to the metal in this car? Not without practical shoes on, lady! It requires the strength of the entire foot to zip from zero to 60 in 6 minutes... combine that with my heels getting caught in the auto carpeting (is that what it's called?) and before long I began sporting that nice pair of loafers I bought for my mom after she broke seven bones in her foot. She somehow managed to leave them in my closet before she left my home.

(Too old looking for her?)

Initially, the gold buckles tried desperately to twinkle, event though they were surrounded by heavy brown leather; now, they gives off a dull gleam that's barely visible when I glance down at them. It's sad, really. All that's lacking is a nice pair of gold toe socks.

(The shoe salesman told me that these shoes can last for a decade if treated with leather protector. Of course, the gold toe socks would have to be replaced every five years or so.)

Behind the wheel of the sedan, I've not heard a single "woo woo" yelled at me from other people desperate for a little attention from the opposite sex. Whatsa matter, boys? Afraid I'm on my way to play bridge with your mothers?

(Or is it that I just can't hear the hollah's cuz the muzak's turned up too loud?)

Last night, I watched a documentary on plastic surgery, the options, the costs, and the risks. A month ago, I'd have skimmed past it on my way to Bravo's cotton candy content rather than stay up till midnight to learn the differences between botox, fat injections, lasers, tucks, recovery times and the dangers of sun damage on newly nipped skin tissue.

(I could get fat-injections in my feet to make them more perky, even in these damn loafers!)

Each day, I hear it's just one more day from the repair man. I should be back in my car by April. Finally.
Just in time to pay taxes and feel truly grounded by adulthood... at least, until I roll the windows down & zip onto the freeway, engaging the gas pedal with just the slightest pressure on feet encased in colorful, and gloriously spiked heels.