I don't care if I look good in this truck. I feel good.
While in ironic hipster fashion I glorified my dad's pink truck, I didn't expect to like driving it. I like small cars. I never did feel comfortable in my '88 Thunderbird; I felt I couldn't control such a mass of metal. And I never much liked being higher up while driving; I wanted to be close to the ground.
This week I have enjoyed driving. Not often do I say that; mostly I view driving as an evil necessity. The small cab was somehow cozy, and I liked that the back window was a foot away, even if there was ten more feet of truck behind that. Most of all, I enjoyed bouncing along down the brick roads. It was like my own personal amusement park ride.
Perhaps my enjoyment stemmed from some latent country-girl tendencies—further fueled by playing my mom's old Dolly Parton tape I found in the truck. (I couldn't bring myself to play the Alabama or Charlie Daniels Band, though I remembered them from my youth).
Or maybe I accessed some masculine reserves that thrived on the power derived from driving a truck, but the pink color satisfied my need to subvert a gender stereotype.
What I know is onn Saturday, my parents will reclaim their truck and return my Protege. And I, I am sad.
I'm such a masculine girl in my pink truck.