It’s a black Jeep and everything is too big - the seats, the pedals, the Starbucks cups that my friends leave in back.
After a Connecticut parking lot my dad makes me trade. I drive down the highway and hate him for swapping my music, Stones for Beatles, Dylan for Chapin, Christina for Britney. But he lets me speed, and he doesn’t answer his phone when it rings, and it’s good.
Just before Yale we hit a Pack - a junket of Volvo and Coupers and Saabs, schooling down the freeway like Finding Nemo following the rules.
“Get rid of them,” instructs my dad, and I pump ‘90 and we skid the air.
“This is way too fast,” I laugh, and he nods. “You’ve always got to get ahead of people, even if it means you break some rules,” he says. “Otherwise, you just get stuck behind them, and you never want to look at someone’s tail lights. Just keep your eyes on the road.”
Eight years later and my best friend from high school hitches a ride in the new Jeep.
“This is way too fast!” she squeals on the highway and our Starbucks cups tip sideways. “Hey,” she says when the window rolls up, “I heard you keep flaking on guys that like you. Why?”
“I don’t flake!” I giggle. “I just need someone who can keep up. That’s hard, you know?”
“You should slow down sometimes,” she scoffs, and I do once we hit an empty stretch of road. “So wait, isn’t there anyone you like now?”
And I do but I don’t answer, and we get where we’re going like 30 minutes before the rest of our friends.
[DANICA PATRICK - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]
Danica Patrick keeps fit with milk.