There are few things that I detest more than car shopping.  Now don’t get me wrong there is nothing like that new car smell, but nothing feels as good as no car payment. There is also a small detail that most car salesmen refuse to accept.  I would like to know if I can first, afford the payment and then of coarse what the MPG, of said vehicle will be getting so that I know if I can manage to fuel the vehicle and still eat for the week. Nowhere in my criteria for a means of transportation does the “vanity mirror” come into play. Although every car I have ever bought, the salesperson feels that vanity mirrors are a deal sealer.  Hello… Have you looked at me? Do I seriously look like a woman that puts her make up on in the car?  Honey, if my makeup isn’t on before I leave the house, chances are I will be avoiding any type of mirror, including the latest reflective technology available to Chevrolet.

I began to learn how to drive before my feet could reach the gas pedal. I would sit next to my dad, with my hand on the manual shifter and his hand over mine. As he shifted he would explain the gears and clutch. Sometimes I would sit on his lap and steer while we drove down dusty dirt roads with no traffic. 

It wasn’t long before I was allowed to move a vehicle a few feet. By the time I had permission to drive to the end of the lane, I felt that I was an accomplished driver. It was but a small detail that I was not allowed by the State of Wyoming to obtain a valid license due to my young age. Details, details.  

The end of the lane also corresponded with the city limits and I was warned that under no circumstances was I to cross that boundary. So of coarse I did. As a stroke of luck, I happened upon a few friends and of coarse, I justified, it would be rude not to offer a ride to a friend. We were having a lovely little excursion; right up to the time I checked my rear view mirror and saw my dad, on my bumper, ordering me to pull over. I noticed immediately the tic in his left cheek, which always boded ill for the child that went to far. I was that child.  Dad took my terrified friends home and I lost all vehicle privileges until the end of time.

The end of time, ironically, came at lot sooner than I thought. In a weak moment dad allowed me to go get the paper. At the end of the lane.  I was like Forrest Gump. When I got to the end of the road, I thought “why not” and I drove right into town. I stayed off the main roads but explored the side streets. I was driving a 1952 Ford pickup with “three on the tree” and was in the vicinity of West Third Street when once again I checked my rear view mirror. Nope, not my dad. It was LPD Officer McFarland. The red, white and blue flashing behind me had nothing to do with freedom. I hit the gas and turned down a side street. The officer was no longer right behind me but he was gaining. I parked the truck and ran into the girls bathroom at Washington Park. After all a male police officer couldn’t arrest me there, I naively thought. And he didn’t. He just called my parents and told them to bring me down to the station, when my travels concluded, to receive my first ticket. And they did. I still felt that I deserved at least a modicum of respect for eluding a seasoned law enforcement officer in a vintage truck. My parents, Officer McFarland and George Clark, Esquire did not hold the same belief. My days of running from the law came to an abrupt end.

When my husband and I arrived at the car lot we were greeted by a familiar face. Our salesman is a friend of my sons and almost an adopted kid. I warned him up front. Don’t bring up the vanity mirror. And we will get along famously.