Ballpoint Wren: The Other Woman is a Car

The Other Woman Is a Car

I've heard when men reach a certain age they become interested in younger women, new cars, and skiing. I even read something about such men trading in middle-aged wives for "two twenties and some change."

I figure I'm safe because I'm only 39. If my hubby traded me in before I hit 58 he'd be arrested for consorting with a minor. So let's move on.

Hubby got a new car. This is a special car... his first brand-new, sporty-type automobile. His last vehicle was an old pickup truck he owned for 15 years, two of which were spent on blocks under a peach tree in Texas.

When we cleaned it out before giving it away we found the keys to our first apartment and a newspaper with the headline: "Bush Hates Broccoli."

The new car is an Audi with "Quattro," a heavy-duty road traction option. He's already discovered this nifty new technology will allow him to drive with a flat tire and not even notice, until people finally wave him down and shout things like "you've been driving on a flat tire at an extremely high speed for the last five miles, you dolt."

I don't like this car and am afraid to drive it. Its dashboard would give jet pilots instrument envy. It can go from 0 to 60 in about 3 seconds, which my husband insists on demonstrating every time we get into the darn thing.

The first time we took a drive in it Hubby did about Warp 8 on the I-15 with the sunroof open and the stereo blaring "Wild Thing." He leaned over and shouted "isn't this great?" I couldn't answer because the G-Forces wouldn't allow me to do anything except show him my back molars.

For a man who struggles with issues like housework, Hubby certainly seems happy to clean his car. He vacuums it every day, whether he's driven it or not. He spends two hours washing it every Saturday, whether it needs it or not.

My neighbor Sophie called to let me in on this.

"Bonnie, he's washing that car again."

"I know, Sophie." Why does everyone think the wife doesn't know?

"He's touching that car again. He's caressing that car again."

"I know, Sophie." I swallowed the lump in my throat as I tried to remember the last time he touched me like he was touching that car.

"Bonnie, you can't let this go on. You have your pride. Get out there and fight for your man!"

Sobbing, I hung up. What could I do? That car was everything I wasn't: young, fast, childless, breathlessly responsive, eager to go places, and she wore baked-on makeup that would never rub off on his collar.

Turns out I didn't have to do a thing... the Audi hussy did it all for me.

She led him down the garden path at about 90 mph and he got a whopper of a speeding ticket. He spent a Saturday in the "Can't Drive 55" School of Traffic and then paid a fine that would've put our two boys through college. He began to realize his car was a high-maintenance chick.

One Sunday afternoon clinched it. He thought he'd introduce the new mistress to his sister and brazenly took them for a drive on a back road. The hussy spun out and my husband was caught "en flagrante delQuattro."

I love that man and didn't say a word when I heard about it. And I never will, either.

Unless he takes up skiing.

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