Yesterday morning I had to pull Madison out of school so that I could take her to a doctor’s appointment. While I was driving to the school to pick her up, I saw a Mercedes Benz with the words “student driver” on the side of the car. What the hell? When I was that age, I think we had a Corolla for a driver’s ed car, which is much a better choice of car if you are going to have students driving up into people’s yards (trust me…it can happen) because it’s much cheaper to repair then a Mercedes.
If you think having a Mercedes for a driver’s education car is bad, you should see the high school parking lot. Who buys their sixteen year old a BMW? Apparently most of the parents at Madison’s future high school do! The high school parking lot looks like an ad for a luxury car lot. When I was sixteen, my parents bought me an Oldsmobile Omega. Yes, my first car was a big, brown, four-door tank whose sole purpose was to keep me safe in any accident. It was a looker. However, you could pile up at least seven people in that car and you could start it without the key. It even had a nice size trunk where we could store those unsightly “butt people” that we would “borrow” (I swear we put them back) from people’s yards. Oh, what fond memories I have of that car.
Madison always talks about what kind of car that she might someday have. She’s thinking corvettes and really slick nice cars. Rick and I are thinking “1999 Honda CRV” or aka “the dog car”. I told her that I would even clean up the dog snot off of the back windows and shine the car up real good. She’s not too candid on this subject. Why is it that you are so concerned with having nice cars, name brand clothes, and looking perfect at that age and by the time you get to my age, you just don’t give a crap anymore?
I remember those days when I wouldn’t walk out the door without every hair glued perfectly in place (the wind would blow and my hair would go up and yet come back down in one piece) and makeup caked on. Now I’m lucky if I’m wearing matching socks and I don’t have holes in the armpits of my shirts. Madison often looks at me mortified and exclaims “You’re not going out looking like that are you?” Oh well….it’s a good thing that I love myself.