I’m having a mid-life crisis. Or not. One probably shouldn’t use the phrase “mid-life crisis” when he’s almost 65 unless he plans to live until the age of 130 – I plan to, but may not get around to it. Anyway, back to the crisis. I suddenly have this urge to be sporty and if there’s anything I’m not, it’s sporty. The proof is in my driveway. There’s my workhorse 2006 Toyota van and then there’s my every day zip around town and look like a hobo car, the 2002 Saturn SL2.
That’s right, the coveted 2002. That’s the money year, the one everybody wants. It’s hard to imagine Saturn is no longer in business after designing this baby. The only thing that sits lower to the ground than this vehicle is a Munchkin with stomach cramps. Comfortable? No, actually it’s excruciating, thank you. I should have known something was horribly wrong when the suggested options were a chiropractor and Vicodin.
It has a V-8 – the drink – and it came with an automatic transmission and a semi-automatic weapon when you realized what you’d bought. The car doesn’t even go in reverse – it goes into remorse. There’s more. It has a steering me wrong wheel, real bucket seats with handles and the sport package consists of a hacky sack and a Wiffle ball. The satellite radio brand name should have been a warning. Really, the You Can’t Be Sirius? The donut tire is an actual donut. The navigation system is a surveyor’s transit and a copy of “A Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy”. I wanted a Lojack system, but Saturn only offered the Hungry Jack. This actually worked out – once two guys attempted to carjack me and they truly preferred taking the more valuable biscuits.
I’m dating a highly intelligent, hilarious, beautiful blonde now (and she’s 52, so back off) and she actually doesn’t mind the Saturn. The planet is what she doesn’t mind – she totally hates my car. Eventually she’ll hate me, too, but we’re in the honeymoon stage now and so I feel compelled to become sporty. Since I live in Phoenix the obvious choice is a convertible for those sultry 115 degree days when my genuine solar-heated leather seats can gently parboil my genuinely on-fire ass. How I long for the wind to be whipping through my bald spot.
I’ve always looked at old men in sports cars as pathetic and apparently now I’ve had a nervous breakdown and think I’ll look cool in one. Hey, I’m fun, I’m different! Who am I kidding other than myself? Seriously, shouldn’t I be riding in the back of a hearse? It’s taken some time, but I’ve got my choices narrowed down between a Porsche Boxster and a pine box.
Now that that’s settled, let’s slam on our brakes just short of a head-on collision with our Blanket Of The Month. From the Beth Rose Miratsky collection comes a singular Pendleton I’ve not seen before and I would date it between 1915 and 1920. A simple banded pattern like this is atypical for Pendleton at any time, but I find it quite appealing. It has a Capps or Racine feel to it but the coloration, weave and binding tells us it’s a Pendleton. Well, it tells me it’s a Pendleton and I’m telling you and you can pass the information on to anyone you like. Meanwhile, I’m going for a drive in the Saturn now and scraping the chicks off the bumpers later.