24-hour pickup

It might not be an F-150, and it’s definitely not the top of the line for the Chevy Silverados: you have to literally roll down the windows to get some air and I couldn’t check out my lipstick because there are no mirrors on the sun visors, although I love the step to help me climb in somewhat fashionably—short people need all the help we can get. There is no remote car key either, but no one can tell from the outside unless I tell them. So bottom line, it is a decent truck and I don’t want to give it back.

I had to take my Volkswagen back to Jeff’s Import Auto for the third time in two weeks as parts came trickling in. He felt bad that I called a taxi to go to work every time I left my car there, so last week he offered to loan me his. After one of the worse weekends in history —where I broke all the rules I’d made for myself in the last few months— driving away in his dark green pickup was the best mood enhancer ever. It’s a smooth ride, but you can tell from the get-go that it is also a powerful one. Don’t tell Jeff, but I’m up 8-2 on red light races.

Or maybe I can’t resist the charm of a bench seat, so comfy, so inviting, so useful when you’re out on a date (I’m assuming here, dating is not my strong point). No middle console in the way for an obstacle-free make out session. Driving around feeling your boy’s arm around your shoulders. Hopefully the truck will have automatic transmission, otherwise changing gears could possibly break the magic of a mile long embrace.

I’m pretty sure I’ll get my Touareg back today. Sigh. Unfortunately, I’m not yet loaded enough to get my own pickup, especially because mine will be top of the line, with all the bells and whistles and mirrors and power everything, and that stuff comes with a very high sticker price. In the meantime, I’ll carry on with the stories in my head. If I’m good at something, that would be it.

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