Something About a Car That's Cool

Makes Me Act Like Tool

Day #34

May 17th, 2013

Team Zybko

Everything about this old classic String Ray corvette made me happy. I found it impossible to look away. The more I starred the happier I got. Dramatic to say the least I know, but trust me. An unexpected flood of warm feelings surprisingly came over me. Drenched me from head to toe.
I stood there frozen, jaw dropped, a statue.
 Like a 15 year old boy, my thoughts were stunted and channeled down a narrow tunnel.
I had only one thing on my mind.
I had to get in that car.
Sit in the drivers seat.
Grip my hands around the steering wheel.
And for just 30 seconds or so....
Pretend this bad A car was mine. 

I openly admit I am a big ole dorky soccer mom that doesn't get out enough but I am serious when I say, this was the day I feel in love with this classic car. I could barely catch my breathe as I walked around it's curvy body a least a half a dozen times.

The shiny rims.
The brown worn in original leather.
The T-tops for open air cruising.
The reflected big white fluffy clouds magically dancing on it's perfectly waxed blue paint.
The complete detailed cleanliness of it all.

The fact that as a short haired tom boy kid, I has this matchbox car. It was my favorite. I spent plenty of useful hours of my life dreaming this particular car would come to life. To conveniently be available for me, to use at my leisure of all sorts. Sunday drives through the country and back and forth to my fantasy job at the time, to work at the local 7-11. Now that would be cool. Obviously the sky was the limit, highly ambitious and motivated I was at 8. It wasn't all about the money to be made, something about if I worked the overnight shift I would be able to stick my head under the Slurpee machine with no one knowing it. Ah yes, the perks I would have. Perhaps if I earned employee of the month, unlimited nachos.
Winner.

Oh geez, back to the car story. There was only one thing in the way of my modern day simple dream coming true. His name was Billy Bob (making that up, don't know his name, that wasn't important) he sat protectively, within arm distance of his Corvette watching me like a hawk as I snapped shots from every angle. Billy Bob wasn't gonna stop me. Nope no way no how.  

Before I divulge the ins and outs of how my booty got to sit in the drivers side seat of this car. A seat that fit like a glove but unfortunately required super human core strength to get back out of, I need to explain. I don't act like a tool on a regular basis, not that I am aware of anyway. Just keep in mind, I obviously wasn't thinking clearly. I did consume quite a bit of fair food before the car show. Let's assume the grease was laced with LSD.

I want this car.

I need this car.

I love this car.

I want this car.

I need this car.

I love this car. 

Billy Bob sat in his NASCAR pop up soccer dad chair, smoking away his last good lung with the dullest of neutral faces I haven't seen since the last funeral I attended. Between changing settings on my Nikon, reminding the kids not to touch a thing I would casually flash Billy Bob what I thought was an conversation engaging smile. Nothing. I try again while looking extremely interested in the type of chrome they used to use in the late 70's. Still nothing. Dude man was like Fort Knox. I asked him about the engine, the durability of the fat tires, how many they made and even told him it was hands down the prettiest Corvette I had ever seen in my whole 29 years of life seen. Poker face plus crickets. Dang, this was going to require way more effort than I had anticipated.

For a moment I contemplate giving up, I should probably throw in the towel. Seems a bit useless at this point. I'm sensing this guy has already sniffed out I know nothing about cars other than how to junk one up, fill up on gas and how to make a graham cracker carpet from scratch. That by the way is not on Pintrest. 

Within steps of walking away an oil light flashes neon above my head. Duh, what was I thinking. I was taking the wrong approach. How could I forget my locked away reserve feminine boosters. I was in fact proudly wearing my #7.97 padded push up bra, time to cash in the money. After some helpful rearranging, re-doing my sloppy bun and wiping funnel cake powder off my chin it was game time. I came back a few minutes later no kids in tow except my teen photographer, hoping Billy Bob wouldn't recognize me.

Well, the tough as nails owner of my dream car still wasn't impressed and apparently smarter than I thought he was.

I went for it anyway. I cleared my throat and in my best Marilyn Monroe voice asked if I could sit in his car, mumbling incessantly about how I played with my miniature version 30 years earlier.

Billy Bob reluctantly pried himself out of his folding chair, completely irritated as he opened the low swinging drivers side door. Yes! I was almost in. It worked, my tool bag self finally broke him down. I meant to take a few mental notes but couldn't even see straight and I flipped my right leg passed the wheel into the bucket seat. My sweet talking was the key to success here, well sort of. At this point it didn't bother me the only reason he allowed me to sit in his show car was get rid of me.

Look at the smile on my face. I'm totally cool with that.