There are chapters to a car-lover’s life, each one with a completely different soundtrack. I know, because my current chapter is set to the tune of “Sensible Choices,” and I’m honestly ready for a remix.
Chapter 1: The Babe of the Parking Lot (Age 16)
My automotive story begins, as all good ones should, with a car that was pure, unadulterated attitude. It was a 1965 Mustang fastback. Pearl black with two gold racing stripes, this car didn’t just roll, it swaggered. Under the hood was a 289 V8 that drank gasoline and exhaled confidence. It was perched on low-profile racing tires that made it look like it was always ready to pounce.
At 16, I was outgoing, cute, and armed with a driver’s license. The Mustang wasn’t just a car; it was my four-wheeled partner in crime. The rumble of its engine was my arrival announcement, the siren song that turned every head in the student lot. It was the fastest, hottest car in high school, and I was the undisputed Babe. This wasn’t just a way to get to class; it was my rolling coronation, and the gas pedal was my scepter. It was perfect.
Chapter 2: The Age of Bleach and Blueprints (Mid-30s to Mid-50s)
Then, life rolled up its sleeves and got to work. The V8 rumble faded, replaced by the practical, determined hum of a car that could handle two jobs. My Mustang days gave way to my waitress years, where the most important feature on a car wasn’t horsepower; it was reliability. My priority was a vehicle that would start without complaint at 5 AM and get me home without drama after midnight, smelling faintly of coffee and sheer willpower.
But I was building something. Tip by tip, I traded my waitress apron for business blueprints. I became the owner of my own cleaning company, and my automotive needs changed again. The sleek lines of a fastback were a distant memory, replaced by the unapologetic utility of a work SUV or a sturdy truck. My life was about hauling cleaning supplies, vacuums, and five-gallon buckets of floor stripper. The “thrill” was no longer a fast launch, but the satisfaction of perfectly packing the truck so nothing would spill. “Off-roading” was navigating a tight alley behind a commercial building. My vehicle was no longer a statement of style; it was a statement of my success—a hardworking, money-making machine covered in a respectable layer of dust.
Chapter 3: The Golden Years vs. The Sensible Budget (Present Day, Age 64)
And now, I’ve arrived at my senior years. I’m 64, with a lifetime of memories in the rearview mirror. My automotive taste has fully matured, like a fine wine, and settled on a 2025 Bentley Continental GT.
The Bentley. It’s a vehicle that doesn’t just drive; it makes an entrance. It’s a rolling sanctuary of hand-stitched leather and wood trim so polished you can see your perfectly applied lipstick in it. It moves with a silent, powerful grace, whispering, “Yes, I’m fabulous, but let’s not make a scene.” It’s the embodiment of elegance and power.
My bank account, however, is a tad more modest. It sings a song of “great fuel economy” and “low maintenance costs.”
And so, my daily driver is a 2020 Toyota Corolla sports model.
Let’s just take a moment to savor the hilarious, beautiful absurdity of that. My soul is ready for a gala in Monaco, but my car is ready for a reasonably-priced trip to the garden center.
The “sports model” Corolla is a triumph of branding. Some come with a chic little spoiler on the back that adds exactly one ounce of downforce and a whole lot of spunky personality. Mine didn’t. It does, however, have a “Sport” button that, when I press it, seems to tell the engine, “Okay, honey, give it your best shot.” The Bentley has a custom sound system that makes you feel like you’re in a concert hall. My Corolla has Bluetooth that connects on the second try, which honestly feels like its own kind of victory.
But you know what? I smile every time I get behind the wheel. When I merge onto the freeway, I hit that Sport button and let all 169 horses run free. In my mind’s eye, I’m not on the 101; I’m cruising the French Riviera. The minivan in front of me is a Ferrari, and I’m about to overtake it with effortless grace.
The 16-year-old babe in the Mustang would probably raise a perfectly plucked eyebrow at my Corolla. But the 64-year-old woman driving it knows the secret: a dream car is about the dream, not just the car. And having a Bentley in your heart while you’re driving a Toyota? That’s a story worth telling.
Now, I’m going to run and see if they make gold racing stripes for a 2020 Corolla. A girl’s gotta have her style. 🙂
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