In
2000, I found myself in the market for my very first, very own car. My husband of 27 years was newly-exed and in
the arms of another woman. My daughters
were off to college driving their own wheels. My emptied nest
was a spacious overstatement and so was my eight-seat, Chevy
Suburban-Mom car. I
was attending graduate school and managing a part-time job in
Boston. I drove thousands of miles a
month to and from work and school and social engagements across New England. I
wanted to downsize to something practical, sporty, and fuel-efficient.
I successfully traded in the
gas-guzzler and skillfully negotiated the purchase price of a VW Cabriolet
convertible. Did I consider about the practicalities or persnickety
workings of a foreign car? Did I analyze the rationale of a standard
transmission in New England’s ice and snow? Of course not. I just knew
that I would save money on gas and have a blast driving my great
little car.