I’m almost 50. It’s about time for a mid-life crisis. I mean, the likelihood that I’ll live to 100 is slim to none. I’m actually behind.
I can’t have an affair, I’m not married.
I really can’t grow a goatee; work won’t allow me to come in scruffy.
I can’t quit my job. I got kids to support. Plus, I really like what I do.
Sometimes I don’t get a haircut for six or eight weeks. That’s me rebelling. Whoa.
But this week, I sort of got to sow some oats.
DJ traded cars with me on Sunday so she could bring all of her stuff home from summer camp, and she left me with her convertible mini cooper. Whoop- whoop!
I whipped around town without regard to anyone who might be watching. I sang, I grooved, the breeze was inspiring.
Michelle was less enthusiastic. She and I have differing opinions of the appropriate use of a convertible. My philosophy is: It’s a convertible, the top goes down. Period.
The other day I was driving her to cross-country practice at 7:15 in the morning. It was beee-u-ti-ful outside, 68 degrees, sunny, a slight breeze. Naturally, the first thing I did when I got in the car after putting my large jug of coffee in the cup holder, was to press the button that starts the process of opening the roof.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
“I don’t understand your question.”
“Don’t open the roof.”
“But this is a convertible.”
“I just braided my hair, and I don’t want to get all smelly.”
“I thought I was taking you to cross-country, not the debutante ball. The roof is coming off!”
“You are about to run around a lake for an hour. I think this is the least of your grooming concerns.”
If it was 95 or 32 degrees outside, I might have considered her request. But it wasn’t.
Besides, when the roof is all shut up, I sort of feel like I’m riding around in a beer can, dark and cramped.
I’ll have to admit, after spinning around in the mini, I do smell a bit musty when I get to work. And, my hair sort of resembles Phyllis Diller’s, but it is so worth it.
There is something about breeze that brings me to life. It makes me want to sing loudly, to flail my arms in the wind, to laugh, to take deep breaths. Add coffee on top of that… mmm, a slice of heaven right on the I-440 beltline.