It’s spring break and I am in Scottsdale, Arizona, enjoying an unusually hot week. Lovely when Kansas City is cold and snowy. Unfortunately everyone else in the world on spring break decided to take a flight to Arizona. The only available one was a 9 pm flight with a price tag that made me close my eyes as I booked it. After an exhausting day of Making My House Perfect (a OCD quirk of mine), I got off the plane with a mind-numbing zombie walk. I hate the commotion and stress of luggage retrieval. Phoenix changed our luggage area twice. I was a wandering amoeba, a sea of faces with no ability to focus. We managed to get to the car rental, and as I sunk down in an exhausted haze, I told my husband that he had to the dirty work and get our car. After 20 minutes, he came back with a Cheshire-cat smile that looked like he had eaten a gourmet dinner of mice and bird. He said, “They gave us a free upgrade, I cant wait to see it.” That’s all, no description. I was too tired to enquire, but I imagined something larger than the hum-drum midsize we had ordered.
After a long haul, Phoenix renal car area a small city in itself, he stopped at a sports car and said, “Look, it’s a MUSTANG”. I looked and saw a steel grey, brand new icon of what was the opposite of my fantasy. I don’t know Mustangs’, other than the idea that it is NOT a family car. I looked at my son and husband. They were lost, mouths open, drooling at the altar of testosterone history. I opened the trunk and turned furious eyes on him. “This is NOT a trunk conducive to 4 people and 10 pieces of luggage!” I stomped over to the door, and was confused. Where was the back seat door? With horror, I realized it had only TWO DOORS. I looked at the tiny interior, the front overtaken by a console as big as the seats and the entrance to the back so small I would need a shoehorn to enter.
“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!” I screamed. His grin slipped a little. “But it was an upgrade and a MUSTANG.” Oh, heck, spare me from men making decisions with their man-parts. I inwardly cursed my laziness. This would NOT have happened if I just had gone to the counter with him.
So I endure a car with a hood as large as the rest of it, and the choice of an uncomfortable front seat, or the indignity of awkwardly crawling in the back without grace, style and a whole lotta’ complaining. My husband is relentless when he wants me to really try something and, worn down, I was arm twisted into driving the beast. How do people see over the hood? How do people see out the back and sides? I was in a wormhole that could turn on a dime and drive like the wind. But I didn’t need a wormhole. I needed to see and drive like someone who didn’t know the area. I got out, told him he was never going to the counter again, and stomped into our timeshare. The words “Mustang” and “Upgrade” should be BANNED from any sentence when a man is in earshot.