Sometimes I feel like a 1966 Skylark convertible I wanted to buy a few years back. This machine was a beautiful 60’s turquoise, with a bright white ragtop and interior, and chrome dripping everywhere—classic. The white wall tires and sedate fins had me humming “Beach Baby” at first sight. Turning the key, I could literally feel the engine turn over; my heart skipped a beat when I revved it.
Something about the pulse of this car seemed to step in time
with my heartbeat—a clandestine meeting. The large slim steering wheel felt elegant in my hands. She sparkled in the Florida sunshine. Finding that beautiful Skylark was a dream come true.
Scratch that! After ten minutes, I realized the rumble of the engine was signaling something wrong. Caressing her flank, I realized she was about 30% bondo, and oil was leaking. The way I was sticking to those vinyl seats was so not sexy.
There have been days lately that I feel like I am that car. Sure, I look well maintained, but I realize the scars from a divorce, plus the regular insecurities of heading to my mid-forties, are wearing on my belts and hoses. What used to be my happy hum is a little squeaky—even in the best of times. A healthy self-esteem, like a rare manual window crank, might be tough to replace—demands that passengers on this trip be gentle seem overly fussy, but secretly crucial. I pray the bondo holds the paint in place another day.
Keep me in the garage—I can’t handle the harsh elements!
Please, don’t pretend to be buying, but really just want to take me for a joy ride.
The construction is strong, true, even if a little dented in spots upon closer inspection.
Oh hell! This model is absolutely impractical for everyday use. Sure fun for a weekend spin. But a daily driver?
In other words, I think I’m obsolete. I’ve realized that my workaholic undertones, impossibly high standards and childlessness makes me both very immature, and slightly worn all at once! When it comes to a relationship with a family focused man, I feel absolutely worthless—I don’t understand many of the nuisances of true family life; my childlike wonder is not charming when there are teenagers around. When it comes to a confirmed bachelor party boy, my dedication to work often leaves me arriving too late, or too tired. And then there are my expectations of my life today, and my future…
Where will I—how will—I find the man that is strong enough to guide me; hold me; and care for me? Soft enough to read 19th century poetry and reveal his deepest fears. And just cocky enough to outsmart me; out laugh me; and out run me; all while falling madly in love with me. Mad enough to buy the impractical, patched up, slightly leaky ’66 model that needs more maintenance than she cares to admit.
In the meantime, I’ll be cruising—top down—hair flowing—shades on—singing to Fergie. (Please ignore the safety pins and super glue holding everything in place—for now.)