My Romancing History in Cars

You can tell a lot about people through their driving history. For instance, in my 45 years of driving, I've had six--count 'em-- six cars! I'm a firm believer in the "Drive 'em Until They Drop" theory.

My younger brother, on the other hand, has probably had 45 vehicles in his 47 year driving history. How did my younger bro have two years up on me in driving, I hear you asking? For whatever reason, my parents let him get his driving permit when he was 14, using the excuse that my dad was in a wheelchair. Although Dad was, I think that was just an excuse for a 14 year old to drive to school every day, even though we lived two blocks from school! Bragging rights I was never afforded (although I knew better than to drive at that young age). Anyway, he's had every type of vehicle from gas-guzzling, monster pick-em-up trucks to motorcycles to sports cars to stuff-the-family-into HUV's.

Then there's my daughter. After 12 years of driving, she's already surpassed my record of six vehicles (mostly because of her fondness for blowing up her cars).

But that's me digressing like the wind. When I started thinking about my run of cars (only six, keep in mind!), I realized how they all coincided with various degrees of romance through the years, a lotta bad, some good, the last one great.

My first car--and still my favorite--was a yellow, black-topped '67 Mustang. She (sexist!) was a beauty, a real classic. Until some dopey, possibly doped, long-haired, barefoot kid ran into four stalled cars on a busy street with his junker, my 'Stang accordioned in the middle. We jumped, flew, got bashed up, until the cracking metal and smoke ceased.

Heartbroken over the fact that it was probably totaled, I began the long walk home until my parents found me (and consequently grew enraged at me, even though the accident hadn't been my fault; that lay on Dopey McDoperson).

Surprisingly good news! A garage my dad found said they could fix it. Which coincided with my very first high school date (okay, it wasn't a "real" date; I was just a placeholder for my friend, entertaining his girlfriend until he got back in town). But I was so excited, I neglected to inspect the body work and drove my faithful Mustang out of the garage and straight to pick up my buddy's girlfriend. Hopes were doused when my friend's GF ridiculed the now white hood, with the rest of the car being yellow. It also felt scary to drive since the accident, feeling like it could fall apart in the street.

Time to go to college! And with it, a brand new (to me, at least; I've never bought a "new" car) ride, a Toyota Celica. The Celica was a good, reliable car, but when it broke down, it totally broke my wallet, even though I managed to steam up the windows quite a few times, if you know what I mean and I think you do. But I had it for years, long enough to woo my first wife in it, and woo we did, the Celica and I.

Then...sudden, surprising, shocking divorce! And I was stuck with a rusted Celica, not the most appealing car to the ladies. ("Hey baby, wanna come check out my Celica?")

So, my dad took it upon himself to find me a new car (I think he took pity on me for the divorce; or he just liked haggling with dealers, a "hobby" I've never understood anyone enjoying.). He even concocted an elaborate scheme to get my dangerously oil-leaking car out to the dealer (I had to keep pulling over and putting oil into it on the way) before it burned up so we could trade. We barely made it and to my nervous disbelief, the car dealer didn't even have anyone look at the leaking hunka' junk.

I came back with a blue Oldsmobile. Again, not the most sexy car, but hey, at least it wasn't held together by rust.

But it did break down a lot. Fun little side note: one time while the Olds was in the shop, my mom loaned me her second car, a BMW, to tool around in. Women were drawn to that like flies to an outhouse. They'd give me Love Eyes at the gas station. When I finally grew bold enough to chat them up, they got turned off when I told them I worked as a graphic artist, clearly expecting me to be bringing home the big bucks.

Over the years, the Olds took me on a lot of dates, some successful, others not. Most not. Which prompted my one sad, middle-aged-crisis purchase, a Chrysler LeBaron Convertible. Very cool! Well...not exactly cool in the Summer. But definitely cool, freezing cold in the Winter. 

Which was when I met my second wife, during the coldest part of an unseasonably frigid Winter. On dates, we bundled up in layers, looking like the Michelin Man and Woman. I finally sprang for a mini-heater that plugged into the cigarette lighter, for all the good it did.

Eventually, we married, and one of the first things my wife did was go car shopping for me (probably because she was tired of freezing). Thus came the Toyota Camry. A very solid car, good for many years during our very solid marriage.

But, it too, eventually went the way of the dinosaur. With a heavy heart (my only vehicle not affiliated with a tragic time in my love life), I remember saying a fond, nearly tearful, farewell to it in the parking lot of CarMax (where we expected to get $200, but crazily got a couple grand).

Which leads me to my current ride, a Highlander. I love the car (my wife insists on calling it a "truck," but I would never be caught driving a truck, for crying out loud! How uncouth!). Oh sure, it had some growing pains. When we purchased the sweet ride, we made the mistake of taking it to our mechanic AFTER we brought it home. The mechanic looked it over with a fine-toothed comb, ready to give it a thumbs up, until he remembered hearing something about that model's engine block cracking in half. Kinda a big deal. Sure enough, he saw enough evidence that made him suggest we get it fixed. I still love it; it's a great car (ummmm, except for the engine).

There you have it. My six automobiles, all connected to a different romantic time in my life. Kinda like my stints in prison (wait...did I just say that out loud?).

Speaking of romance, pity poor Shawn Biltmore, who is caught between two beautiful women. Why pity him what others would envy? Because it'll be very hard for Shawn to romance any woman when he's a part-time werewolf. Not to mention the fact that there's another werewolf eating his coworkers. Or could it be Shawn doing the dinners and blacking it out? Only Shawn's autobiography,

Corporate Wolf, holds the shocking answer!