I was very excited to go to Reader Retreat at The Bookshelf in Thomasville, Georgia (more on that in a future newsletter!) last weekend. I was not excited, however, about the process of getting there. I’m not my best and most beautiful self while traveling because it brings out a lot of anxiety. So many things that can go wrong. So many mistakes I can make. And I always get nervous going through security…did I mistakenly pack fireworks or gasoline? Who knows!
Part of my nerves came from the fact that I was renting a car at the airport, something I’d never done before. I had no reason to believe this would go badly, and yet it occupied many of my daydreams. What if I damaged the car? What if they didn’t have any cars left and I was forced to make a new life at the Tallahassee airport? What if someone was mildly rude to me and I spent all weekend ruminating on it?
After both of my flights went smoothly and without incident, I arrived at the Avis rental counter, ready to complete the last leg of my journey. Everything has been fine so far, I reminded myself. After clicking around on her computer for a few moments, the woman at the counter told me, “All we have left is a Mustang hardtop. That okay?”
I laughed and said, “Sure!” Part of me thought she was joking. I don’t know why this woman, who so far hadn’t even attempted small talk, would get her kicks by telling random customers that they would be receiving Mustangs, but I still kind of thought that when I got to the lot, a Toyota Camry would be waiting for me.
Instead, I found this.
Something to know about me is that I have what might be referred to as “car trauma.” I do okay with it now because I’m required to drive almost daily, but I do not have a need for speed. I have a need for obeying the posted speed limit. I’m fairly certain that no one has ever been filled with so much dread upon finding out that they’d be driving a Mustang.
Still, the Stang and I were stuck together for the weekend like the leads in a rom-com who find there’s only one bed in their hotel room. This was a case of forced proximity, opposites attract…name a rom-com cliché, the Stang and I had it. I reminded myself that I was an intelligent adult and I was more than capable of driving a two door sports car that was absurdly low to the ground.
I started the car and the Steve Harvey Morning Show blared at me. We weren’t off to a good start. Maybe we were more “enemies to lovers.” I switched the music to a Calming Classical playlist on Spotify.
The thing about a Mustang is that it wants to accelerate, and it wants to rumble while doing so. I, however, did not want to accelerate, partly because I was in a parking lot. But the Mustang was practically crying out to go faster, grumbling as I slowly made my way to the road.
The other thing about a Mustang is that it’s all blind spot. Do people in Mustangs not need to see behind them, or…? Maybe Mustang drivers literally let Jesus take the wheel, because I wasn’t certain how else I was going to see if any cars were coming. It was like that scene in Clueless where Dionne gets on the freeway, except I was attempting to turn out of a parking lot and going five miles an hour.
It quickly became clear to me that I was supposed to assume a relaxed posture in this car, essentially manspreading as I leaned back. Unfortunately, I only know how to drive like this.
The drive to Thomasville was about an hour, during which most cars passed me. I’m sure no one had ever seen a Mustang driven so slowly, or while listening to Debussy. The problem was, the Mustang kept accelerating of its own accord.
“Slow down!” I yelled.
“I can’t drive 55!” the Mustang replied, sounding suspiciously like Sammy Hagar.
I told myself that if I got pulled over, I would simply explain to the officer that this was my first time driving a Mustang and I couldn’t be held responsible. I assumed they’d understand.
After a harrowing drive to Thomasville, I made it to my hotel, parked in a spot away from other cars, and did my best to ignore the Mustang for the rest of the weekend. Even when I could have driven somewhere, I didn’t. The Stang was staying put.
Everyone in my life found the car hilarious, because everything about me screams “sensible midsize SUV,” not “bright red sports car.”
“I’d want to take it out and see what it could do,” my mom mused when I called her. It’s worth noting that my mom is prone to getting speeding tickets. She’s also kind of a Sammy Hagar figure, I guess.
I did not want to see what the Mustang could do. After my weekend in Thomasville was over, I white-knuckled it back to the airport and left #Stanglife behind (hopefully forever). I’m back to driving in my preferred style.
I know this isn’t the newsletter’s usual format, but I’ll be back to movies/books/TV soon, and I’ll tell you all about what a wonderful experience Reader Retreat was. See you soon.
I smiled the whole time I read about your time with the mustang. As someone who tries to make her body smaller while driving so that the car will magically fit (in low clearance parking garages, narrow lanes on bridges, etc…) despite always having sufficient room, I related heavily to this.
I am the Not a Car Person in my family. My dad and both sisters have drag racing trophies. I picked a Kia Soul when I finally got a chance to buy a car that was solely for me last year, because HAMSTERS. So this is very relatable content to me.