When I turned 16 years old, my dad told me I could have any car I wanted. I told him I wanted a black truck, because
a) I was a farmgirl living in Ohio, but more importantly,
b) the boy I had a crush on had a black truck, and clearly creepily buying a twin vehicle is the way to any man’s heart.
A few days later, I owned a black ’86 Chevy Blazer with a grey stripe along each side that a family friend’s son was selling. Although it wasn’t exactly the shiny new Dodge Ram I’d imagined, I couldn’t have been happier with the way I could pretty much back into everything in sight and not inflict a bit of damage to my precious bumper with the inherited “Fast Boys Dirt Toys” sticker on it. It was only when my dad made the same offer to my little sister a year later and she ended up with a ’98 Ford Mustang that I reconsidered my ride.
I thought that moving to New York City would rid me of my constant worry that everyone pulling up beside me at red lights was judging my poor Blazer. I thought that without a nonfunctioning rear windshield wiper to hinder me, I’d have no insecurities. What I didn’t realize is that public transportation is ten times worse.
. . . And you can click here to read the rest on my Examiner page. OHHHHH! BURN!