Vanity Wars: HER My kind of hybridClick here to read Vanity Wars: HIM By“Faith” I passed my road test the first year the SUV went mainstream. I did not appreciate the novelty of a Chevy Blazer in the burbs until the middle-aged Department of Motor Vehicles man in a sensible parka instructed me to do a three-point turn. “I don’t have to,” I smiled, suddenly playing the role of Autoshow Spokesmodel in braces and sneakers, “because this baby turns on a dime,” and he said, “Whoa—this is so cool,” or something to that effect, and continued to not pay attention to anything I was doing. He looked about the car, letting the clipboard rest in his lap. We had another novelty car when I was a kid, one associated with somebody’s mid-life crisis. It was a tomato soup-colored Gran Torino with an orange Starsky and Hutch stripe. It might have replaced a station wagon with paneling. It certainly left an impression. I remember hearing “Your damn father,” the day my mother put it in a ditch during a snowstorm. This car led to the Blazer. If I have done my calculations right, it is just about my turn for a fantasy car. “Convertibles are not practical,” my husband said to my first proposal. “You’ll be cold in the winter and hot in the summer.” There is nothing more practical, I figured, if what one had in mind was cruising down the highway in June with a left elbow resting atop the driver’s side door and a right wrist controlling the wheel, listening to “The Boys of Summer,” not that I have thought about it much. I even borrowed a Chrysler Sebring ragtop once, adding a Hermes Scarf and Fendi sunglasses to the package, and pretended what it would be like to have a different life. I gave everyone in the house a new name, and that name was “Darling.” “How about a two-seater?” my husband countered. “Well, yeah, ’cause that is much more practical,” I responded to myself, wondering when exactly I had invited him into my car fantasy. Do they come with side cars and trailers for sports bags, computer cases, and, oh, I don’t know, kids? No, this was going to take more time. I was beginning to realize that I was yearning for a true hybrid: a vehicle that would offer some degree of satisfaction for every lifestyle fantasy I had ever had. The car had to be part Vespa, because at some point I had wished to be a French woman in Paris, zipping about from dress designer to flower shop; part Jeep Wrangler, because at another time I had dreamed of living in the desert Southwest, spending my days in work boots and cutoffs, with much longer legs and just-as-long, thick, wavy hair; part seventies Mercedes Benz diesel, because as a pretend southern California girl, this tank would protect me from falling lampposts whenever I became distracted by lipstick application or storefronts worthy of further exploration; part sixties Mustang, because whenever I watch My Cousin Vinny I realize I would sacrifice every cashmere sweater set I ever wanted just to be a Brooklyn-born cosmetologist and know everything about engines; and part Bentley, because it comes with a chauffeur, I think. “Do you have a mid-life crisis car?” I asked the English car salesman, standing amidst gorgeous luxury cars. This would be easy, I thought, until I witnessed his face turn red. “I don’t believe so,” he said and backed away. “Do you have a mid-life crisis car?” I asked a German sportscar saleswoman, starting to feel like that baby bird trying to find its mother. “How about this,” she offered, directing my attention to a stunningly powerful two-seater. “It looks great,” I agreed, “but I still have kids.” “Get a bike. Learn to take a bus,” she suggested. It was fifteen seconds of stunned silence before I realized she was talking about the kids. I was beginning to suspect that perhaps I didn’t fully understand the concept of mid-life crisis, but I kept searching, only to gather such helpful advice as, “Usually anything red,” or “There’s lots of ‘Girl Car’ lists on the Internet.” I changed up and began striking what I knew I didn’t want. Nothing with a gas guzzling tax. Nothing that looked like ZZ Top might step out of it. Nothing smaller than a tire on a Mack truck. Nothing named after an arachnid or other venomous rock dweller. And nothing thick, heavy, or gilded, images of myself I had been working desperately hard to avoid. “A woman is so much more practical about her mid-life crisis,” another sportscar salesman began. “Ladies will get a convertible in a model that can be driven year-round. The men will buy whatever has the sportiest engine, even if it shouldn’t be driven in winter.” Amazing. Was this a frivolous distinction within a frivolous subject matter, or yet another indication that women (other than those in beer commercials) can never completely let their hair down? I had no idea, but I suddenly found myself considering more practical offerings, cars that came from jets, or confused crossovers, or cars made for really smart, safety-conscious people. I even discovered a car that came with an iPod-compatible audio system. I mean, how young and hip would I feel then? About as young and hip as the guy with the comb-over, probably. I was about to give up when a pristine station wagon in luminescent pearl caught my eye. Somehow, the glow screamed freedom from grape jelly fingerprints and empty french fry containers, even though I knew better. I flashed back to a long-ago cross-country venture in a cobalt blue hatchback from the same car company. My little mechanical partner had never let me down, allowing me to drive from rodeo to art museum, always with some degree of acceptability. An old allegiance surfaced. There was no escaping the fact that there I stood, staring at a station wagon, but I accepted the fact that a pearl paint job would have to serve as my call of the wild. Then, because this is how life works, I found my dream date: a hard-top convertible. It had a back seat that could work, provided the children never grew legs, an aluminum roof that resolved the weather issues, and a high performance V-8 engine. I don’t even remember the color. This was a trophy husband, glass ceiling-breaking job promotion, and kids-at-ivy-league-school-on-sports-scholarships phenom all rolled up into one vehicle. It does not matter that I cannot afford it. It’s OK that I will be driving the minivan for a few more years. It was enough that I traveled to the dealerships and smelled the smell and imagined how some aspect of my personality could fit behind the wheel of at least one model in each showroom. This car lust fantasy left me completely satisfied. I did note, however, that not one of my choices was tomato soup red. “Faith” still beats speeding tickets by flirting with the trooper. Click here to read Vanity Wars: HIM Back to the Table of Contents Back to Top