Eating Some Crow With The Dinks

I. Was. Wrong. There, I said it.

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.

So, I jumped at the chance to hop behind the wheel of this little black beauty.  And, in the spirit of Mary, I started my ride with a rousing, “Gentleman, start your engines!”

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.

We spent the evening reliving the beauty and power of the Corvette while enjoying wonderful Italian cuisine.  I was the only one eating crow.

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


31 thoughts on “Eating Some Crow With The Dinks

  1. You make me “belly-laugh” and believe me I have a belly that will accommodate lots of laughs!!

  2. I’m glad you had the opportunity to ‘live’ in that moment. I haven’t had the chance to play Batgirl, nor have I had the opportunity to soar down the road in a snazzy vet; but hell, I can get tickled when a young man looks in my direction, and completely ignore that there’s a sign for drink prices right behind me. 🙂 Living in the moment….

  3. It’s not ‘eating crow’, it’s ‘alternative perspective’! I bet you there was no soured milk, melted chocolate bars or smelly hockey equipment in that ‘vette either!

  4. You’ve done it again! Great post. Especially the reference and picture of Mary Hulman George—funny! And your Target sweater set. You slay me! Keep up the good belly-laugh-inducing work.

  5. As my kids would say, vroom vroom! Nice car, I’d like to take it for a test drive too. I can’t complain though. Every day I drive my 6-speed manual Ford Fusion and I love it. I’ve always driven stick and when I tried to switch to automatic transmission, I hated every minute of it and traded the car 2 years later. My kids tell me I drive a sports car (it’s red) and I’m not sure if they mean to say something about my driving… I don’t speed on the freeway but I love the feel of the acceleration. I feel the need for speed!

  6. Great column, as usual. As one who remembers the day you were born, and served as your babysitter, PLEASE stop calling yourself middle aged. You are killing me. By the way, you look good in the vet.

  7. First, I loved your story about why middle-aged women don’t drive Corvettes. I can see why you won a very deserving award. Second, even though you had this one-time fun experience in a midlife-crisis-mobile, believe me the little red sports car experience gets old when you have a steady diet of it, mainly for all the reasons you pointed out in your original story. We used to have a Mustang convertible as a “fun” third car, and let me tell you, it wasn’t practical for our lifestyle at all. We had to pay to garage it six months out of the year (we have continuous snow on the ground those six month), it had NO cargo room to speak of, it was fairly expensive to maintain, plus, if you took it on a “date” where you wore fancy dress wear, getting out of the car was like one of those a physical challenges on the TV show “Survivor”. Long story short, it may have been fun for that one time you drove it, but your original assessment of a long-term relationship as a middle-ager in a Corvette was spot on. I’ll take my Subaru Outback any day of the week.

  8. I remember when I got to drive one of the first PT Cruiser’s and I felt really special partly because all the people on the street were staring at me. We all need a break from reality once in awhile!

  9. What fun! I’m frothing at the mouth to be rid of my mommy van, now that ‘the kid’ is almost 19, but don’t you know, they actually require $$ in order to allow you to drive off the lot in a new car. Grossly unfair. Love the new look of your blog!

  10. I use to fantasize about owning a yellow mustang. I finally convinced my husband to let me rent one when I visited my daughter one summer at her dance camp in upstate NY. He was wise to acquiesce to my wish. For lots less bucks, I came to the conclusion that stringy hair lashing across my face as I drove with the top down was not my idea of Grace Kelly cool. To add salt to the wound, I was so busy singing along with the radio, I got lost. I had to stop twice to ask for directions. And finally, there is no leg room to be had in the back seat of a mustang. My daughter and her friends were constantly fighting the seat belt to climb in the back.
    Now I’m actually contemplating a volkswagon beetle convertible. Guess I’ve not yet learned my lesson.

  11. I always say I couldn’t care less about the cars I drive as long as they get me where I need to go. Seriously. I often forget what car I’m driving, while I’m driving it.

    EXCEPT…there is a teal blue Thunderbird convertible in my neighborhood with “I Fly” as its license plate. Both kids and the husband ignore me when we pass it and i say, “Oh, there’s my car.” But I’m keeping my fingers crossed for my 50th bday – or 60th – or whatever…

  12. Hahaha! Well, to throw a little fuel on the fire, I got a Mustang convertible when I was 43. I finally went with powder blue instead of cherry red, figuring I shouldn’t flaunt the horror that was my old age. But I do have lots of cute, young guys firing their engines to catch up with me at red lights. I can’t begin to describe the bummer in their eyes when they spy who’s behind the wheel. Let’s just say it hasn’t made me feel any younger…

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