I thought I should pass on to members my experience of this summer. I think
it can be appreciated by a few of the owners, especially those in their 50's
and older and maybe single. To make it gender neutral for the ladies, just
swap she for he and visa versa.
I live in Vermont in a typically quiet neighborhood. It so happens that my
street of about 20 houses has 1/2 of them occupied by single women. Now
guys, don't get excited yet. Out of the 10 eight are 62 and older, one is
about 40 and then there is Lisa (alias). Lisa is 32 and recently divorced.
She loves working around her house and washing the car, clad in her bikini or
other attire that needs modeling. Of course, that is when she is not at the
gym exercising and toning what appears to be a wasted effort on an already
perfect shape.
Lisa does attract members of the opposite sex. Often when I've pulled the
Tiger out of the garage there would be a few fellows across the street in
Lisa's driveway. Now the Tiger has glass packs so it is a little noticeable.
Those people in their 30's aren't used to hearing the V8 rumble and so a few
times Lisa has yelled over for the benefit of her friends, "Doesn't that have
a V8 in it Mark?" When I either nodded my head or yelled back ,"Yes," I
could see a little discussion between them, Then if I checked my mirror as I
drove away I could see their eyes following.
This went on most of the summer; the Tiger rumble, the Lisa shake, the V8
question and Mark wondering. Wondering how I was going to get her into the
car:) Toward the end of the summer and on an unusually warm day for autumn
in Vermont I was pulling the Tiger out of the garage. Now I must confess
that when Lisa is outside I do tend to race the engine just a little bit more
than usual. I guess I thought that eventually she just wouldn't be able to
resist and would have to ask for a ride. As I'm backing out I notice that
Lisa is vacuuming out her suv. Now it's too cool for a bikini, but not too
cool for tight shorts and a snug tank top. Lisa has dark brown hair that
goes half way down her back, brown eyes, always sun tanned, has just about a
perfect shape and usually wears large brown sunglasses. She is the type that
could be right off the pages of a lady's fashion magazine - very classy
looking. Well, as I'm backing out (with the extra revving) I'm thinking that
if she doesn't ride this autumn it will have to wait until next year. Hmmm,
what if she moves away before next summer?
I finally get my nerve up and decide that I'm going to ask the big question.
I swing out of my drive, do a quick turn (with the normal extra revving) and
quickly pull into her drive and up behind the suv. She jumps out of her car
and looks at me. She has a bottle of Windex and a rag in her hand and I
just go numb. I figure I've blown it. It's probably not the right time.
Do you disturb a woman when she's deep into a cleaning job? I know you can
pull me away from cleaning, but I'm not that sure of the female mind. Maybe
I should I just claim that I only wanted to say hello or maybe give her some
lame compliment on her cleaning job? Am I going to come across to this
little goddess as the biggest make believe stud in the universe? I'm
beginning to think that this whole Idea is a mistake. I mean, get real, a 55
year old man trying to pick up a 32 year old could-be model. I've seen the
guys that she can attract. Granted, there haven't been any exotic cars in
the drive, but she did take a trip to Aruba that I figured she was treated
to. Actually, she probably agreed to a 5 minute photo shoot in return for a
one month's vacation. I believe she could pull that off. Now think about
this. How many times does the male ego want to approach the unapproachable,
win her over and just drive off into the sunset? I know there are many
times that we've seen women that we think are unapproachable. We'd like to
walk across the room, grab their hand and drag them to the dance floor.
Instead we normally lay back and often let the opportunity pass. Or we
figure that if we just stand there, looking sexy long enough, they will not
be able to resist and they will come and drag us off. I think we tend to
forget that the woman is probably as hesitant as we are. She's often
thinking, "I wish that guy over there would ask me to dance. What is he
waiting for? I've looked over at him a half dozen times." We go through
this ritual over and over. One day we finally decide that we aren't getting
very far with this tactic. It's time for the more direct approach. We pick
a day where maybe we're bolstered up with a little liquid courage. We
practice the approach and line we are going to use over and over in our head
until we have ourselves convinced that we are irresistible and cannot fail.
We drag out of our chair and start the long walk across the floor to the
battlefield. It feels like every eye in the place is on us. They know what
we are attempting. They see the target. They are all eager to see if we
succeed or fail. Many of the viewers are guys who have been through the same
battle. Some have failed and secretly hope that we will fail. Their ego has
been wounded and gets further wounded every time someone does better than
they are capable of. Others look away. They cannot stand to see the
rejection that is sure to come from a move as bold as this one. These people
have felt the sting of rejection, but are eager to see someone succeed where
they have failed. I guess they can live vicariously through the success of
others. We feel our legs a little shaky and weak as we make the long walk.
The feet seem to get heavier with each step. It actually seems hard to pick
a foot up when its turn comes. It's sort of like a last walk. One can bring
back the memory of the movie, Dead Man Walking. Before we reach the halfway
point we suddenly realize that there is an easy way out of this mess. We
can always do a quick 90 degree turn, stop and talk to a friend that we've
just spotted or we can make a bee line for the men's room. Hey, when we're
having a couple of drinks, we all have to get to the can a few times a
night. Either of these options can save us from the embarrassment of
rejection and save us from the walk that will seem like 5 miles, back across
the room without a prize in hand. We will feel the eyes and see the smirk of
those wishing for us to fail. We don't make the 90 degree turn. We bore on
straight ahead. It is time to chalk up one success for the little guy. The
little guy sweeping a queen off her feet. The answer comes quickly, "Oh, I'm
sorry." And the excuse can be one of a variety of possible answers. If the
queen is sensitive to our feelings she might tell us that she has a steady
boyfriend and can't dance with anyone. We imagine that he is probably some
professional sports figure. I mean who else could date someone with this
lady's looks. Another woman might say that she hurt her foot earlier in the
day and can't dance at all. "If the foot wasn't sore, I'd be right up there
with you." That is the answer that we hoped for. It wasn't me, it was the
sore foot. As we start the long trek across the floor we can again feel all
of the eyes in the room on us. Some have big smiles on their faces that say
to us, "What a loser." Others still have their heads down, suffering from
yet another defeat and promising themselves that they will never get
themselves into that kind of a situation. We'd like to yell out to all the
eyes that "SHE HAS A SORE FOOT!" We slink back to our seat and now have a
choice. We can hang our head and promise that we won't be that stupid again
or lean over to our buddy and whisper, "She's a dike."
I quickly blurt out, "Lisa, would you like to go for a ride?" Now my mind
is racing to figure how creative her excuse will be. "In that thing? That
car is hot," she answers. I'm stunned for a few seconds. It finally dawns
on me that the younger generation uses the word "hot" to mean very cool or
desirable. I manage to yell, "Sure, it's a great day for a top down ride."
She says, "Just give me about two minutes while I put a little more clothes
on." I want to tell her that the weather feels really warm to me and that
the little clothes she has on will be plenty. I decide not to push my luck.
The Lisa shake runs into the house leaving the door open on the suv.
She comes back with a light jacket and her hair tied into something like a
ponytail. I'm sure you've seen the ponytails on 12 year old girls (and now
boys), but this is much longer, hanging halfway down her back. When the hair
is bundled together this way one can see that it is mostly dark brown but has
streaks of black and some reddish highlights. Kind of makes you wonder how
that hair will react in a drop-top Tiger at 80 MPH. She jumps in and I
explain how the seat belt works. I get a funny stare and she explains that
she usually doesn't bother with a belt. I give her that knowing look and
tell her that today it might be a good idea. I notice a vacant and then
excited look and then I realize that I've kind of painted myself into a
corner. I've given the impression that this is going to be a pretty wild
ride. If she gets an "old lady" ride she will be disappointed and from that
day on I might as well have a 4 cylinder in the Tiger. If I try to make the
ride too exciting, I could do something pretty stupid or even fatally stupid.
For those familiar with the Vermont landscape, I don't have to tell you that
every road either goes over a hill, in which case there are blind rises or
the road goes around the hill in which case there are constant blind curves.
The roads are great for the "thrill seeking" enthusiast. I remember years
ago Road and Track listing the 10 best drivable roads in the country. Part
of the criteria was curves to test your driving skills and the car's handling
and lack of speed enforcement from the local mounties. This should give you
some idea of what can be found here. 50 MPH on a 30 MPH blind curve can have
the hair on your neck standing at attention. The younger generation here,
unless they come from a privileged family are used to doing their speeding in
a Honda Accord. Now these cars, in their own right, aren't a bad car at all.
However, they are a far cry from the stuff that the older generation has cut
its teeth on.
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