I am officially an adult now. A soccer mom stereotype. Go ahead. Laugh at me. My 22-year-old self is. And I keep telling that lazy hooker to shut up and go have another beer.
Above is my new car. Really, it's our new car, but Jerry has ceded it to me, since I haul those two gigantic boys around with me most days. We traded in his Land Rover (he mourns; I silently sing "Hallelujah!" over and over again) and now he drives my Explorer (or Exploder, as he calls it — again, more mourning).
I am not the type to fall in love with cars. I don't fall in love with most things material, really. Any object in this house is always at risk of being tossed to the curb if I find it in a place it should not be more than once. I do not form sentimental attachments to things.
But this car I am getting very, very fond of. Tonight, as the sun goes down, I am already planning on picking up CO 128, heading toward CO 93, drinking in the beautiful light and the Flatirons view, turning up the music very loud, holding Jer's hand and listening to my pajammied little boys chatter in the back seat.
It is the Friday night plan of a boring 40-year-old woman.
Shaddup, 22-year-old self. I don't even think you have a car.
