My mom has sent J two emails in the past week, each with P.S. of “Don’t forget to vote!”
She’s sent me notes too, but with no such reminder tacked on – maybe because she’s trying to thwart my leftward leanings? Although I acknowledge that the power of my vote is very likely lost in such a red state, I’ll still make the statement. Go O!
About 5 ½ years ago, during the construction of our house, J decided that he needed to buy a truck. Instead of the used, late-model vehicle of reasonable gas mileage we’d discussed, he bought a 1968 Ford pickup of dubious reliability. Because that’s practical.
I hated that truck. It was ugly as sin (two different colors), got shitty mileage (15 mpg), and died on the side of the highway at least twice a month. I ranted and raved about what a waste of money and time it was. J’s answer was, “But I like a project!” And I retorted, “You have one! It’s called OUR HOME!”
A couple of years pass. J inherits my old Ranger pickup when I got my new car, and the old Ford sat in the shop for months and months. About a month ago, J decides to put the truck up for sale. He places an ad on Craigslist, and (surprisingly) immediately gets a call. Some 16 y/o kid needs a first car. So the kid comes out to look at the truck, all excited at the loud, ugly masculinity it exudes. He promises that he’ll have the cash the next day, and not to sell it before then (ha). I am doubtful. Until the next morning, when I return from an early Saturday morning shopping trip to discover the boy at our house with his mom, handing over the cash for the truck.
J shows the kid the secrets of the old truck, signs over the title, and we watch him as he takes off down the street, his girlfriend sidled up next to him on the bench seat, like we’d ridden so many times before. I’ll admit to being a little sad, remembering what our life was like when J first bought the truck, but I was kind of glad to see it go. I look over at J, and he is actually misty-eyed. In the seven years we’ve been together, this marks only about the third time I have ever seen him tear up – the other times being on our wedding day, and during a big wicked fight in the first months of our marriage. It broke my heart a little bit – J is not one to get emotional, but I guess the truck was like a friend to him. At the same, I’m not that wild about the fact that I’m held in the same level of esteem as a 40 y/o piece of shit vehicle. But I guess it says a lot about the kind of man I married. Love you too, babe.