Recently, I got to drive J's mint green Jaguar down the Pacific Coast Highway. It was a rush of coolness for my driving self.
Not only did I take it down the PCH (after a requisite stop for Thai food), but I also parked it in a basement parking garage filled with cement columns in the most inconvenient places. Sure the columns are holding up the building, but could they make the parking any harder? Fortunately, the Jaguar crawled into her resting place without a ding or an ‘oh shit'.
When I was a little girl, my mother's dream car was a Jaguar, a creamy light yellow one with a sunroof and a leather interior. When she learned that Captain Picard drove around LA in a Jaguar convertible, she dreamed it even more.
Mom's dream car has yet to ‘make it so' into her existence. Please don't fret for Mom though. She now lives in her dream location and has declared that she's not moving.
And no, I never suggested she should move out of paradise. She just declared that she's not moving almost as if she wants me to say, ‘Mom, I think you should move out of the garden of eden' like I'm God or something, but I would never say that because I make peace not war.
Anyway, moving on.
I got to drive the Jag. Ohhh, there's something so cool about looking out over the hood and seeing that little silver jaguar racing out in front of you on the edge of the hood. I'm gonna catch you, you little Panthera Onca, I'm gonna catch you.
And the ride of the Jaguar. It's doesn't just move. It glides silently. It turns without stress and will stop when you tell it to. It's like cream---the cream in coffee, on cakes, and (insert favorite sexual image here).
Yes, I am in car love, but it was just that one time. I swear, my Tracker, I will never give you up.
I love my Tracker. It's fun, quick, sprightly. I take care of my Tracker. I change the oil and fluids regularly. Please understand dear Tracker, it's just that sometimes I need to drive other cars. It just happened.