Getting Older

This afternoon returning home from Price Chopper where I just spent enough money to get twenty cents off my next twenty gallons of gas, I admired Mini Cooper Clubman. The little car zipped by me, a pretty shade of blue rarely seen this summer in the skies of the Northeast. Of note was the rear door that opened a little like a double door refrigerator, or a large cargo van, expect of course this car was the size of a large toy box.. Or woodshed.

From out of nowhere, much like being side-swiped by a tractor trailer, a thought slammed into me. As nice as the car looked and I thought I might enjoy driving one of those little economical, easy on gas cars, it suddenly looked very vulnerable. There I sat behind the wheel of my 333,000 mile Jeep Cheokee, feeling safe. I have no airbag, but I felt safe. Dumbly safe, but safe.

At fifty-five I finally grasped the concept. I preferred safe to small. I understood something my older friends had been expressing for years. They like their big cars. My Jeep isn’t huge, but it is a little monster compared to a SmartCar or a Mini Cooper.

It was a good feeling. I don’t have any cash for a new car. And I just squashed any glimmering desire to buy a small new one. Yayh. Now about that scooter in Hawaii…