convertible weather

So, we are cruising down West Elm in the mini van, the large, space-shuttle doors mini van. The windows are down, the Eagles are screaming from the surround sound, the van sways with the movement of a car full of happy, singing boys and their mom.

One day I parked the car at Hy-Vee and glanced next to me, only to see a leggy blonde getting out of an incredibly cool T-Bird convertible, black, shiny in the sunshine, absolutely no finger smudges from a fudge bar could be seen anywhere, none on the car, none on her either, I am sure. She emerged from the car as a swan from a perfect, clear pool. Swept back, her hair was one of those styles, you know, the do that we aspired to as teenagers when we slept with our hair rolled around orange juice cans, the silky locks of a Breck girl.

"Hey," I heard myself saying,"When I am driving in my dreams, I am driving YOUR car." She laughs and tosses her sleek head. I get out of my van, a graham cracker smushed on the back of my skirt, a Hannam's Dairy Dream napkin stuck to my heal, firmly attached with turtle sundae adhesive.

I do not drive a convertible...my hair would never survive the wind and I know I would get hit in the face with a rock that flew off of a passing black top truck. I do not drive a T-Bird...no place for the grandbabies, their car seats, diaper bag, stroller, or emergency graham crackers.

But sometimes, I imagine myself to be all alone. I crank up Aretha Franklin, grab the hairbrush from my purse and pretend it is a microphone. And I drive through the JC Penney parking lot, singing along to R-E-S-P-E-C-T. The boys hide on the floor of the car but I don't care.