I drive a modest car. Actually, “modest” is a modest word for how understated the round, white, tiny wagon is. In a bid to distract people with catchy alliteration, I call it my Humble Hyundai Hatchback Hoopty (HHHH). That, or its other nickname, “Egg.”
Due to a hereditary combination of fear, frugality and asceticism, I’m used to living cheaply. My parents aren’t Quakers, but they definitely believe that it’s a gift to be simple (and a gift to be free, like the samples at Costco. Who says there’s no such thing as a free lunch?). I never felt self-conscious about HHHH, but lately little events make me reconsider. To wit:
1. A few years ago, my boyfriend bought a nice car. Sure, Seductively Sybaritic Sensible Sedans (SSSS) have their benefits, including top safety ratings, fun bells & whistles and the not-to-be-overlooked halo coolness derived from riding shotgun. (Cue Rick Ross’ “Aston Martin Music”! A song which, coincidentally, I feature on 2 of the custom CD-Rs in HHHH, but which has never been played over the satellite radio in the SSSS.) But now, whenever we have occasion to park HHHH & SSSS near each other – such as in our tandem-spot garage – the contrast is a bit uncomfortable. It’s like if you saw Fred Flintstone’s podiatrically powered pick-up vehicle alongside a … well, any other type of post-Model T car. Car-nitive dissonance.
2. On the past season of Mad Men, I noticed that Betty Draper’s car had power windows. In the 1960s! Meanwhile, my car, bought new in the 2000s, has power-your-own windows. And locks. And the alarm system is unreliable. (Alarm system = yelling “Hands off the Egg!” if I ever were to witness a theft attempt.) I have it on good authority that any theoretical Egg purloin attempts would be classified under the unique category Petite Theft Auto. And the act would be tax-deductible under the little-known category “Charitable Taking.”
Pebble Beach, that Camelot-by-Carmel, gave me a chance to trade HHHH for some new jalopies. First: A Lexus GS.
Our last big activity of the trip was a horseback ride. Now, I’m a big over-thinker and I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe the horse didn’t want to be carrying me and my post-continental breakfast bod. Nevertheless, I endeavored to bond with my appropriately named horse, Queenie. (I just realized “Queenie” almost anagrams to “Equine.” I appreciate her name even more!) Equineenie, if you’re out there reading this blog, thanks for schlepping me around without incident. Thank you for not Chris Reeve-ing me when I took the saddle selfies.