I HATE station wagons. I’ve always hated station wagons. All makes, models and colors. I hated them when I was 10. That was the year I fell in love with a red sports car.
For my 27th birthday my husband came home from work and tossed me a set of car keys. “Happy Birthday, sweetheart. Come check out your present.”
I followed him outside. There in the driveway sat a new car, well of course it was used, but it was new to us. I gasped and my tears started to flow.
It was the vehicle my nightmares were made of. It was a baby blue. It was the dreaded and much hated station wagon.
How had he forgotten that I hated station wagons? My worst fear was in my driveway and any hopes of ever attaining any sort of coolness were dashed forever.
That was the last time he ever tried to surprise me with a car, at least we alternate who gets to choose the new car. I’m still waiting for the you-can’t-have-that-it’s-impractical sleek, shiny, fast, red sports car.