Last Christmas, my beloved diesel VW Jetta threw a series of high maintenance jerk face tantrums and we finally, heartbreakingly, decided to see other people. Sniff.
In good Romancelandia heroine fashion, I mourned. Deeply. La Jetta’s betrayal of our 11 years together stung, wounding me to the quick.
But, again, when you live in Romancelandia, there is always a happy ending for the plucky heroine who pulls up her boot straps (though, why boot straps? What ARE they anyway?), dusts herself off and puts herself on the market again.
On Christmas Eve, I started speed dating. In short order, I learned that Mazda, Nissan, Mini, Subaru and I were NOT compatible. I’ll admit it, sometimes it was a looks thing. So shallow. Other times, it was totally a socio-economic divide (Let’s just say Mr. Cooper would NOT have been a cheap date satisfied with domestic beer).
I soon became discouraged, sure that a new true love was not on my horizon and I was destined to hitch rides in Other People’s Cars. Blink, blink, sniff.
But something, call it kismet, call it fate, told me to keep the faith, keep my chin up. The next date would be a winner.
Oh, readers, it was.
Meet Luigi Fiat. Luigi, whose baby blue curves had me saying hello, hello, hello, hello. Followed by, where do I sign?
For a year, we’ve been very happy together.
Except for those times when I’m having a day where I *know* I’m looking F-I-N-E. Good hair, fly outfit. The two of us are cruising the town and I’m getting a lot of second looks. I admit it, I start to preen, I start to, maybe, give a little flirt back. Jack up the attitude, pump up the smile wattage.
Then I realize I’m not making eye contact.
No one’s seeing me, because they’re all busy checking him out.
Hey you! My eyes are up here!
Though, gotta admit, if I were on the street when he zipped pass? Damn betcha I’d be scoping out his rear bumper.
Guess I can handle a little automotive envy, since at the end of the day, we know I’m the only one shifting his stick.
Buon viaggio, amici!