There are times in life when I’m drawn to intense reflection. It often happens on the drive to a Healey Club event—the longer the drive, the more intense my reflection. John is not privy to my thoughts along the way because he can’t hear me over the din of the engine. Having to keep all this reflection bottled up inside me often results in what has come to be known as my having a Wine Emergency.
On the last outing, we pulled into the parking lot and went straight to the bar to address this issue. I had barely started to gaze into my husband’s blue eyes when the bartender and his blue eyes appeared, asked what we’d like, whipped it together, set it before us, and said, “On the house—your wife looks like she could use it.”
“That proves it,” I said.
“What?” My husband asked.
“Really smart people have blue eyes!” (This is not to say that people whose eyes are another color are not intelligent. I, for example, have hazel eyes.)
“I was thinking of this in relation to the Healey Club. I’ve noticed a preponderance of blue eyes there. And you must agree since you have blue eyes and drive a Healey that they are all really smart. Did you notice how fast he was? How he read my mind—chardonnay, supersize!”
“Well, why don’t you ask him if he’s really smart while I go to the restroom?”
So I did.
“Excuse me, Mr. Bartender. I’m doing a scientific study. May I ask you a personal question?” (It’s a good idea to address others at a bar by their courtesy title and surname so they don’t get the wrong idea.)
Bartender: “I guess.”
Me: “Are you really intelligent?”
“Well, I like to think so,” he answered. “My mother says so.”
“Well, that just proves it. And have you ever known anyone with blue eyes who wasn’t smart?”
“Yes,” he laughed, “Jessica Simpson.”
“No, no, no! Wrongo. You must be referring to the tuna kerfuffle. I have it on good authority* that she thought they were saying ‘chicken in the sea.’ The poor girl probably never had to read a tuna can label in her life. She was just making conversation.”
John observed me having too much fun and returned. “We need to leave now,” he said.
I am nothing if not inquisitive, persistent, relentless, a back seat driver—which has come in handy when the back seat belongs to a tow vehicle. So, to further validate my premise, I set out to engage the eyes of every man at the meet. As I was mega-mingling, I noticed out of the corner of my eye my husband purposely wending his way through the crowd in my direction.
“Please stop it,” he said before I could wend any further. “This is not a laboratory, and you are not a scientist. You are a Significant Other at a Healey event. Flagrant eye contact is restricted to cars.”
“It’s OK, sweetheart. I asked the wives. They’re fine with it. In fact, they said they’d like some validation on that point, too. And please stop rolling your blue eyes,” I said.
“Seriously, the Club could benefit from my research. Have you fellows given any thought to broadening your market, like to American car drivers? I just happen to have thought up some slogans for you:
- Austin Healey—not just another pretty face.
- Look smarter—drive a Healey.
- Join the Healey Club, where the only mileage that counts is your car’s.
“Think about it. You could pick up all those indecisive car enthusiasts who are wavering between a dependable car and a pretty one. People who know nothing about English history. Resale value would balloon! Wouldn’t it be nice to know we have some collateral for repairs?”
John is an engineer, and it’s really hard for him to argue with logic—even mine. So he didn’t. But I’m putting these ideas out to the club, and you can use them at your discretion. Just please don’t mention John’s name if you do.
*The National Enquirer.