Auto Eroticism: Something There Is That Doesn't Love a Car

On Saturday, my husband came home with that triumphant expression that I have come to know rather well over the years as meaning "Here it comes!" and announced, "Well, I did it!  I bought us a car!"  Then he looked expectantly at me and waited for me to get all excited, which didn't happen.  (A bit of a let-down for him, that.)  You see, we are moving to Rockland County, and they don't have a subway up there.  I know.  I can't believe it, either. I'm telling you, it's a considerable shock to my City Girl system.  Worse - after all these years of having a driver's license for purposes of cashing my checks at the bank only, I am now expected to get into the car, turn on the engine, and make the thing go.

He did tell me what kind of car it was - a Honda - and I'm sure he told me the model, or brand, or make, or whatever it is that indicates that not every Honda looks like every other Honda.  (The problem being that, to me, every Honda does look like every other Honda...and every other Toyota...and every other...ummm...what are the names of some other cars, please?)  I am proud to state that I can, however, tell a Jeep from a Ferrari, which latter I refer to as, "Oh, look at that cute little car.  I wonder if those are expensive."

Then there was a quiz.  My husband, after telling me all about Our Honda, wanted to know if I knew what kind of a car we now own, and after some umm-ing and errrr-ing, I finally blurted, "The kind with four wheels and an ignition."  I figured this was a safe guess...although, for all I know, there could be five, or even six wheels - stranger things have happened.

I was relieved to learn that the used car dealer is going to have to hold onto the car for a week while we get it insured, after which somebody who isn't me will, I hope, drive it up to our new house and leave it in the driveway until we actually move in and I have to start driving it myself.  (Any volunteers?)  To my husband's wistful suggestion that this would be an excellent opportunity to hone my (nonexistent) city driving technique, I returned that it certainly would be a pity if the car were to be totaled on the very first day we got it home, and that was the end of that.

It wasn't until around 2:00 a.m., when, judging by the look on his face, my husband was dreaming blissfully of the kind of cars (the plural is not a typo) he would have liked to buy, and I was staring, wide-awake, at the ceiling, thinking about how much fonder I was of the IRT #1 train and of the fact that it stops a block away from my apartment than I'd ever imagined, that I remembered I'd neglected to ask what color our new car is.  Not that it matters much.  I am all too well aware that, since all cars look pretty much alike to me, I am going to have to find a couple of distinctive bumper stickers and put them on the back of the car, or, like the shades in Dantes Inferno, I am going to spend Eternity wandering around aimlessly, probably in the Walmart parking lot, trying to remember which one among the thousands is ours.
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