Fine, I’ll admit it.
There have been occasions in my past when I’ve ‘fallen in love’ with someone because of their wheels. While this could be seen as shallow and a shameful example of judging a book by its cover, my argument is: how many books have you bought with an ugly cover?
Falling in love with the owner of a shiny rolling hunk of metal is not superficial.
Rather, it’s an appreciation of that person’s taste in the finer things in life. Would you be more inclined to accept a date from a collector of Renoir paintings, or from a person with bad art, stark bare walls or no walls at all?
One of my first boyfriends had a car. Now, I wouldn’t say that was the only reason I accepted his offer of a date, but there was a certain mystique about him since he was one of the few boys in that small town who had a car – and it was his own, not his dad’s.
At the time, I didn’t really pay that much attention to the specifics of the car. I remember liking the sound, the speed and the stereo. Little did I realize just what a machine it was — a silver Pontiac Firebird Trans Am (circa 1978) with a rear spoiler, a hood scoop, red leather guts and that bird splayed across the front hood. I loved that bird.
When he sold it for another vehicle, I was disappointed. My memory blurs slightly after this but our dates trickled off. Okay, maybe a bit superficial.
One might say my adolescent behaviour was immature. I would have to agree.
Yet, even as an adult woman, the stance and crispness of a certain black 1991 GMC Jimmy caught my eye and – here I am, 23 years later – married to the driver.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Hun. So you know, it wasn’t just the Jimmy.