The green car has no shock absorbers (“shocks” to the intelligentsia), radio (but you couldn’t hear it over the din of the motor, anyway) or air conditioning (spoil its authenticity?!). I’ve overheard him telling admirers that I won’t ride in it because it’s either too hot, too cold, too bumpy or too noisy (or a combination of), and I am too vocal.
For Father’s Day, I decided to overcome his objections, prove my love and accompany him on a British car rally over the river and through the woods to Filoli Gardens (and its upscale gift shop).
- I did not complain.
- I did not buy the $289 purse with the poodles all over it (which would have made everything right in my world).
- I did not “lose it” when, just casually commenting about there being a difference between the temperature outside (106 degrees) and inside (higher), MHTE handed me what looked like an oversize fire extinguisher and said, “Here, use this.”
- I did not press the “choke” button on the dashboard.
- When beads of perspiration began erupting on my husband’s forehead, I did not use the British car air conditioner to spray him like a concubine fans her sultan. Alright — I did. But not before spraying myself.
- I did not tell him I had to refill the British car air conditioner with 7-Up because it ran dry. Fortunately, it was diet so we didn’t stick to the seats.
- I did not eat lunch when we stopped, and I didn’t complain — couldn’t … heat stroke.
- After lunch, I did not check my e-mail on the ride to the gardens. (Actually, I did, but told him I was looking at Google maps to find our way out of the unmarked back roads where we were lost.)
- When we finally found the gardens, I did not lock eyes with anyone staring at us in our matching Healey shirts. One person wouldn’t stop staring. “We’re fraternal twins; Mom still dresses us,” I smiled.
- In the parking lot, I did not mouth “It’s for sale — call me,” while my husband was talking to admirers.
- When an Aston Martin owner pulled up beside us and said, “Nice car,” I responded, “Yours has air conditioning.” “Yeah,” he said. “Trade?” I asked.
- I did not hang my feet out the window to escape the blistering heat of the cockpit (oh, excuse me, “foot well”), even though I had been freshly pedicured for this event — because I couldn’t maneuver the trunk of my American-size body to that position.
- I did not tell my husband that this trip was going to cost him a lot of money when I got back.
- I DID e-mail the list of coming Healey events to all my husband’s friends when we got home. And I’m practicing my look of disappointment for when he says to me, “Sorry sweetie, there won’t be room for you.”