The other night I was being driven home in a taxi that was an American model car. Or at least a modern model. It had shocks, which is what really impressed me to tell the truth. I got to thinking about what makes a hot car. Like the kind of car that attracts girls like flies to honey. Now, I'm not so picky. I hate to drive, so I'm actually wary of cars in general. But, if a car has shocks, I'd be ecstatic and if it had a seat belt I'd be in heaven . In the States though, I think there was certain criteria for what made a "chick magnet."
The first thing a car must have is a bit of muscle. No wimpy little v-4 engine for us ladies. A v-6 is good, but v-8 will get even scaredy-cat Sepra to sit up and urge the driver to go faster. The other important thing is if it has a manual shift. There's nothing that makes a driver look and feel more in control than shifting gears. It's not about the reality of gridlock-inspired leg cramping, it's all about the "all-powerful" image that a stick shift conveys. Of course a car must have all the amenities too, like shocks, seat belts, and cushions, but really, I think it boils down to how manly a car is.
For me, the hottest car is the Pontiac Firebird. It looks like it could get a speeding ticket parked. Although I prefer the earlier versions, the 80s series also reminds me of Knight Rider and other kitschy television shows, which is cool. With all the choices that we have in America, I'm surprised that we don't seem to have cars like that anymore.
The other day I looked in the mirror and came across two old friends that I haven't seen in three years. I blinked, but they didn't go away. I moved from side to side, thinking that it was just a trick of light and shadow. But no, my cheekbones have finally made a reappearance. I rushed out to hold them, making sure they were real, and felt the prick of tears in my eyes. I told them how happy I was to see them again, and they assured me that they wouldn't leave me this time.
Now lets rewind. In high school and college, I was a highly stressed overachiever who was always trying to lose that elusive five pounds. Because I wasn't an anorexic supermodel, I thought I was dumpy-looking at best. Then, in my junior year of college, I fulfilled my own prophecy by gaining weight until, by the time I was in Peace Corps, I was 10-15 pounds heavier. No more cheekbones.
Stories ranging from the boring to the gross describe my yo-yoing Peace Corps weight. Last year, when I was about 15 pounds heavier, I would have given anything to get back to my high school weight. I look around me here and see nothing but anorexic supermodel-types and I realized that I was curvy and attractive, not fat. And well, now I'm here again and for the first time in forever I look in the mirror and like what I see. I am a bit sad at all the self-esteem I squandered before. So what if I wasn't a size 6? I was still hot.