The Muscle Car

I sat at the traffic light in my bright yellow 1967 Chevy Camaro.  The throaty rumble of the engine as it idled filled the air and it spoke to me.  "Yeah," it said, "I look awesome.  And you look awesome in me."

It was true.  I did look awesome.  The noon-day sun reflected off the chrome finish, blinding anyone who dared to gaze at my resplendence.  When the light turned green, I pressed my foot to the floor and took off like a shot leaving nothing but a cloud of dust in my wake.

I drove for miles as the wind whipped through my hair, engine roaring.  There was nothing but me and the road.  I slowed down as I approached another traffic light.  Any other day I would have plowed right through the red light, daring any law enforcement to even attempt to catch up with me.  But today I wanted to make sure everybody saw me. 

Heads turned at the rumble of the engine.  Passers-by nodded in approval.  The sun shone bright on my face and the warm breeze tousled my hair.  I closed my eyes and breathed in the sweet summer air. 

As I slowly opened my eyes I was violently dragged back into reality when a sippy cup hit me in the head.  The top flew off and cranberry juice splashed everywhere turning my minivan into what looked like a grizzly crime scene.  The rumble still filled the air, but I sank low in my seat as I noticed people staring at my 2000 Windstar that was shaking from the growling engine.  I sank my head in shame.  When the light turned green I said a little prayer and rocked myself back and forth willing the van to move forward and pick up speed.  I pressed the gas pedal to the floor, reaching a top speed of 25 miles per hour in about thirty seconds. 

Reality stinks.