Driving Freedom

Driving Freedom
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These days, it seems almost blasphemous to proclaim freedom from the tyranny of fear. Well, I’ve declared my own personal war against angst: I bought a convertible. I’m over 50 and I feel like a kid again. I’ve never owned a convertible in all these years. Boy was that a mistake! Now, I’m out in the open, feeling good, feeling young, liberated, and almost cocky like a bear.

It’s amazing that in a climate like ours here in Southern California, we can be so isolated in our houses, in our cars, in our own worlds. A convertible removes the isolation. I smell the smells as I drive down the street. The sky is open to me. I hear the birds as they twitter and squawk. I never heard them before. They’re saying “Look at us up here! Everyone else is ignoring us. It’s so unfair.”

The wind. The wind thrashes my hair. I don’t care. It’s so rare to feel the wind anymore. The wind we feel is the draft of the air conditioners in our homes, our offices and our cars. No more. It’s real wind. Outside air. In my hair. People stare. I don’t care.

I used to lock the doors, driving down the street – afraid I’d be molested or infected or unprotected. No more. I’m out there. It’s rare, I declare.

And I’d lock the doors, the trunk, and the windows when going to a store. No more. It’s freedom from the fears of today. It’s out there. I’m out there. It’s liberating. It’s a dare.

The sun opens its arms to me in my car. The foggy mornings greet me with their coolness and their quiet blanket. In my hair, outside air, the sun and the fog and the wind—I don’t care. I am living. It’s almost a contradiction that I can connect with nature through my car! I’m suddenly aware.

I used to have a sunroof. It’s not the same. Really. Trust me. A sunroof is like having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without the jelly. It just doesn’t cut it. I swear.

And I waited WAY TOO LONG to buy this car. Why do we put things off? Why do we shun the unknown? Don’t put off living too long, or you’ll never have lived. Crush your fears. Hang it out there. In the outside air, in your hair. Today, it’s rare.

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