August 2, 2018

My life is a vintage muscle car

I was thinking about this yesterday as I was emailing a friend about life, the universe and everything. My life is a vintage muscle car.

Now stick with me here because it does make sense and isn’t just an excuse to share some wicked Mustang pictures.

See, if you have a classic car, and it has to be a classic because really who can get behind a minivan in this analogy, you treat it right. After all, you only have the one.

The trunk can probably hold a lot but it has a finite amount of space. You can’t take everything you own in it so you need to pick and choose the baggage you carry. And even if you had the space, the more you carry, the less fuel efficiency you’ll have, right? So you want to let go of the stuff that doesn’t matter.

When you drive through a difficult road, like one full of mud and gravel, you want to pause and clean your car. Allow it to have a rest. Make sure the you treat it to a relaxing cleaning with soft rags and warm water.

You want to make sure your fuel tank is full with the good stuff. Oil changes done on time. Washer fluid topped up.

And oh, when you’re driving, you want the good music playing. Not the stuff that makes you angry or sad or anything that empties you. You want something that gets the blood going in the best way.

I haven’t even talked about passengers. Does your car seat two? Six? How many people are along for the ride? When they become poor company, maybe toxic, do you insist they stay in the shotgun seat next to you anyway? Or do you slow down and gently let them out to go on their own way?

You get to pick who’s in your car, along for the ride.

You get to choose what, and how much baggage you want to carry with you.

You get to decide if you shine that baby up or resign yourself to a mess.

You get to choose what to feed your car.

You get to choose what music you fill your car with.

And if someone is screaming at your from their car, telling you how to care for yours, who to take, what your baggage should be, roll up your damn windows, turn the music up and give your steering wheel a pat.

Driver picks the music, direction, and shine.