Another birthday has come and gone. Despite the fact that I was an angel all year, my dream gift was not heaven sent. It wasn’t Carpenter gift-wrapped either. Hmph.
Every day this month, I’ve checked the driveway to see if my 1965 Ford Mustang Fastback was waiting for me to take it out for a spin. I figure we’d rip up the back roads of Wellington County together. Have Mustang Sally eat our dust. Just once I wanted to hear Wilson Pickett sing, “Guess you better slow that Mustang down…” and be referring to me. I’d be singing my heart out, (totally on key of course), motoring along, (at the legal speed limit, naturally), windows down, shades on, heading anywhere I wanted to go, with my best pal riding shotgun. Oh, that gives me shivers just thinking about it. Sadly, I am stuck in neutral for another year.
If you ask the Carpenter about my affection for this car, (which, by the way, has been my love since long before he was), you would get the same flat response that I get. Whatever. This is followed by an eye roll, then an index finger at the side of his temple moving in a clockwise circular motion to indicate that I am disturbed. He just doesn’t appreciate cars the way I do.
The Carpenter won’t attend car shows with me anymore because I am an embarrassment, (his words, not mine) fawning over strange cars and drooling over all the details that go into making a hot rod, well, hot. I like listening to car lovers tell me the stories behind their cars; where they found them, how they fixed them up, chose the colour, etc. To me, this is fun. I don’t know why I get it, but I absolutely do. Car fanatics are passionate people. They take such pride in their work and craftsmanship. Who wouldn’t want to be part of that?
It’s a good thing the Carpenter didn’t come along to the Mount Forest Fireworks Festival. The car show was almost as long as the town. It was like being a kid in a candy store. I wasn’t there two minutes before I found him, my Mustang, (in my fantasy, cars are “he”). He was a shiny red colour polished up right, chrome shining in the afternoon sun. It was love at first sight. He had muscle under the hood and the sweet slope of a Fast Back with the fins carved in, and that stealth front end. The body reminds me of a shark, beautiful and dangerous. Automobile perfection. Clearly, we were meant to meet.
Unfortunately, my Mustang was spoken for. But owner Steve saw that look in my eye and we were immediate kindred spirits. I got the whole history of this sweet ride, from the manufacturing line to the restoration bodywork. He offered me a chance to sit in my dream car, (oddly enough he would not hand me the keys).
I was paralyzed. Should I? Would he be able to get me out if I refused to leave?
I said yes. Who wouldn’t? It’s okay to tease yourself, right? I was born for this car and this car was made for me. We belong together. It’s so obvious. Why can’t anybody else see it?
Don’t worry, I got out before Steve had to call security. He was a really patient man.
It’s only six months until Christmas. Cross your fingers that I stay off the naughty list.