Drive 2.

Graduating from college is one of those “holy crap” moments. Gone are the days when your greatest worries were studying for a biology mid-term or writing a paper about some dead English guy. College was behind me. Ahead lay 40+ years of stop work punctuated by all-to-brief weekends of yard work and all-to-often, mindless chatter in windowless conference rooms. My long haul had begun as a dutiful, albeit reluctant, worker-bee in the corporate world. Bring on the mission statements and org charts. And make it snappy.

Enter the Honda Civic. How apropos.

By definition, civic means “of, relating to, or belonging to a city.” Yep, that was me; commuting back and forth to downtown Norfolk, working in an office building, wearing a tie, drinking bad coffee, and being introduced the wonder of spreadsheets and presentations. I had joined the ranks of the countless corporate lemmings. This rather “Orwellian” experience started in 1984 of all things. Mind you, there were highlights along the way: I fell in love, got married, and bought a condo. I endured comments from my grizzlyish college friend who referred to my Honda Civic as “one of those lesbian soccer mom station wagons. Ooh girl, I bet you drive around in that listening to John Tesh.” Uh, no. I did drive it the beach, to the mountains, and literally over the river and through the woods. Well, it was through a river, but that’s a different story.

After about 7 years of driving the Civic, the air conditioning conked out and I was too cheap to have it repaired. As a result, I often drove topless to work on hot mornings where I would then break out the shirt and tie and commence to get dressed right there in the parking lot. The reverse would occur for the drive home.

One day while driving to work the Civic “threw a rod” according to the mechanic. A slow oil leak finally got the best of me and the car. The estimate for repairs was double the car’s worth and then some.

It was time to move on with a new car, a new job and a new stage in my life. Enter car three.

Drive

The other day I was sitting in a meeting and the discussion turned to Dodge Caravan minivans, of all things. It was interesting to hear that these minivans rose in popularity in the early 1980s just when a lot of baby boomers were booming out babies and needed suitable means to transport kids to soccer games, dance recitals, and day care. Apparently, the battleship-behemoth station wagons of their parents wouldn’t do the trick. Now, I haven’t given much thought to my automobile choices over the years until just the other day. I will soon turn 48 years old and am proud to say I have owned only four cars, none of which were minivans. Looking back, the types of cars I had said a lot about my life stages:

It was the spring of 1980. Big hair and loud music were signs of the times. I was a senior in high school and ready to take on the world which was monumental task considering I would have do it from behind the wheel of my mom’s khaki-colored Aspen station wagon. Come to think of it, that car was probably one of the reasons I remained dateless most of my junior and senior year.

One afternoon, my dad and I made our way to used car dealership off Victory Blvd in Portsmouth, Virginia. I can’t recall the name of the place to save me. It was “Clive something” or “Chester whatever.” It had taken up residence in a defunct gas station where the owners hoped that colorful banners and cute antenna decorations would draw you mind away from abandoned the gas pumps. I had amassed a small fortune of $750 dollars to use towards the purchase of a 1975 White Food Mustang II unequipped with power steering, FM radio, or air conditioning. It was the perfect car for a high school senior high on testosterone and low on cash.

It was the car I drove to the prom. The car whose windows I steamed up in fits of teenage passion. The car in which I loaded a stereo, a television, books and clothing as I made way off to college.

I have had upwards of six college friends piled into the car at once on various occasions for late night / post frat party runs to Hardees. How we made it there and back still remains a miracle. It was a perfect car for free-roaming days and the occasional reckless nights. Looking back, I was a mustang behind the wheel of a mustang for well over 100,000 miles. But that changed when I graduated college.

Enter car number two: