I have never been able to develop an affinity for cars, no matter how hard I try. The emotional bond that men have with them is completely absent in me. I regard the car not as another human being but as the ‘thing’ that transports me from point A to point B. Period.
I lack the skill of discernment when it comes to cars or for anything that sits attached to four wheels. As far as I'm concerned, each and every one of them has the same set of four whirl-able wheels, two bright lights right in front, two red ones right at the back, four entrances and no maintenance. They are all of them one and the same. The only feature that differentiates them, one from the other, is the colour which is something that I can refreshingly relate to. Because colours are what I live and breathe for.
Because of that, it has become quite characteristic of me to walk purposefully up to a car that is not mine and attempt to embark simply because it's of a similar colour to mine. I've also attempted to break into someone else’s car for the same reasons. As I was wiggling my car keys in the lock one day a gentleman came over and, seeing that we were all women, asked politely what our intentions were in forcing the lock (his lock in particular). We babbled. In a chorus. And at that instant the true owner realized, to his complete disgust, which by the way was spelt correctly on his forehead, what we were all suffering from (we suffered from car-bungles). In a state of shameful shock we backed off and whimpered. Hurt and disorientated.
So the day that a complete stranger walked confidently up to our opened car door and happily snuggled into the back seat while hugging a bundle of groceries on her lap was one of the happiest days of my life. She sat comfortably for a good few seconds and then started to blink at an unprecedented speed. My husband, children and I stared benignly back at her not unlike the cows on my son’s t-shirt. It was not until the light of revelation had dawned on her that she flustered, turned into a beetroot, hurriedly disembarked and stumbled over to her employer’s car nearby. Now that is what I call a soul
I have also come to realize that cars have another very important purpose in life and I can vouch with absolute certainty that my daughter, N, would wholeheartedly agree with me.
For some, cars are not really cars in the sense of being cars, if you know what I mean. For men, it is a Form, an Idea, the Platonic perfection of their unnecessary infatuation. Cars are made to look good, shapely and are blessed with that effervescent glow, so that men are taken in, woo them, caress them, fall in love with them and treat them with such useless, idealistic tenderness the result of which, we women, being the pragmatic green-eyed monsters that we are, have come to regard cars as a substance for abuse.
I, being woman, believe that cars were made, unwittingly, as a panacea for the demented warrior women of the twenty-first century. In order to get from point A to point B, the highway is the holy war path, the car engine the steed and the horn, the jousting stick. And the car, the whole car and nothing but the car? It is mine armour.
What better armour than thy car, me ladies. Thou art damsels within their mighty embrace. Tis why after a war weary day when the fair maiden cometh home she dismounts and leaves her armour safely clamped outside for it to recuperate from the day’s battle and to prepare for the next.
As a mark of all her heroic attempts at bravery my daughter’s car scathingly shows for it. Two long scratches that scratch to infinity on the left side, a whimpering dent in the left corner of her back bumper, a rebellious hollow on her right front door and an amputated wing mirror on the driver’s side. All mustered in good time and speed and I appallingly applaud her.
It is with much reluctance then that I reveal to all men, husbands, fathers and sons alike that in all our girlish attempts at feminizing the car with cuddly toys, dainty tissue box covers and fluffy cushions, those acts are merely beguiling ways to disguise the dark, demented truth of the inner workings of warring women at their height of combativeness.
So beware you small minded road bullies and caressing car adulators out there. We care not for what the car looks like nor for which is ours but for what it is capable of. Period.
Image taken from this interesting related article.