My Unrequited German Amour

Guess who rode in a beautiful, shiny, low-to-the-ground-0-60mph-in-a-heartbeat Porsche today? Oh, heck yes it was me and now I’m spoiled for life.

My boss drives a Porsche and we picked up food for the rest of the office today and took his car (he took one look at my trusty Kia and picked his Porsche. Go figure.) As I stooped to the ground to get in (apparently German engineering doesn’t extend to accomodating the non-miniscule) I couldn’t help but notice how even the door handles are awesome. In fact, the only non-awesome thing about that car is the ridiculous excuse for a backseat. The backseats are so small they truly resemble an infant’s carseat more than they resemble seats for full-grown adults. This would be great if you made a habit of cruising around with circus midgets but becomes a bit of a problem when you have average-sized friends.

My boss demonstrated the car’s exceptional accelerating abilities by rocketing us to 50mph on a small side street and I nearly had a heart attack. I can’t even imagine how fast you could get that car to go on a lonesome stretch of highway! The engine is in the back of the car so when it accelerates it literally shoves you to the back of your seat. Egads, it’s such a thrill!

Suffice it to say, I’m in love (with Porsches, and perhaps every small, fast, pretty car in the world.) There’s something that appeals to me greatly about the ability to accelerate to inhuman speeds with very little effort on my part. This love will have to go unrequited forever, however, as I am certain I will be a danger to myself and everyone around me should I be allowed to wield that much horsepower. Also, see above re: no backseat. How am I supposed to be able to enjoy blasting through the world without my husband and puppy along for the ride?

Let’s be honest, though. If we owned a Porsche there’s less than no chance Wes would ever let me drive. In fact, there’s a good chance I’d never see him again unless he was hungry. How can any mortal woman compete with the stunning appeal of a beautifully maintained sports car? For that matter, how can any man stand a chance against the raw appeal of a good old-fashioned American muscle car (such as my personal favorite, the 1967 Mustang)?

So, I think for now we’ll just stick with our trusty, though dumpy, sedans and save one another the pain of vehicular adultery. I think you’ll agree that it’s just safer that way.

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