I won my first writing contest with my story, Why Midlife Women Don’t Drive Corvettes, a tongue-in-cheek commentary about how middle-aged women are too sensible, and if they are like me, too chubby to drive the sports car coveted by middle-aged men for years.
This midlife woman should have taken a ride in a 2013 60th Anniversary Corvette before letting the ink dry.
The Last Pancake and her husband, for purposes of this story, “The Dinks” (dual income, no kids) let us drive the newest four-wheeled member of their family.
It’s like driving the Batmobile. The speedometer appears as an optical illusion in the windshield. I’ve never seen anything like it. And, no backseat means more room for my backseat.
On that particular day, I needed a reason to feel hip again. It seems my Cinderella Friday – house cleaning in the morning and a relaxing afternoon at the hair salon – backfired on me.
My grey hair is usually transformed into golden locks but for some reason went Servant Cinderella brown. My mother told me my new straight brown locks reminded her of Mary Hulman George, of Indy 500 fame.
With my hands on the steering wheel and my brown hair blowing in the wind, I completely forgot I was wearing bleach-stained Kohl’s capri pants and instead pictured myself dressed like Batgirl.
I pushed down the gas pedal. With the power from my canned ham-like foot and Clark’s sandal, we jetted through the cul-de-sacs and roundabouts. Catwoman said, “Listen to her purr.” At that point we didn’t know if everyone was staring at us because we looked ultra cool or because the Batmobile was scream’in cubes.
For the moment, it was not a typical Friday night where we scarfed down pizza and hurried home to watch TV. We felt so hip, that we decided to dine at a restaurant with white table cloths. Heavy leather menus replaced the typical laminated, marinara stained ones from our usual haunts. I even squeezed my canned hams into a dusty pair of old black jeweled sandals and put on a new Target sweater set.
I don’t know if it was the power of my canned hams or the magic of Cinderella, but my jeweled sandal suddenly broke in half.
The spell was broken and I returned to the family truckster with mere memories of driving the Batmobile Corvette and pavement-stained 7-Eleven feet.
So, that is my counter argument why midlife women should drive Corvettes – and, wear sensible shoes.
© 2012 Terri Spilman