21 April 2003
The chromed exhaust of Dorian Gray
Occasionally staff meetings get off-topic given the topic, this is usually more a blessing than a blunder and one of our younger mediumwigs (a step below the bigwigs) acknowledged that yes, he'd added some custom bits to his car, and he was grateful for our fulsome praise. "It makes me feel like a kid again," he said.
Being twice this, um, kid's age, I thought about this for a moment, then tried to figure just what I could do in the realm of automobilia to rejuvenate my old, decrepit self. Most bolt-on baubles are horrendously tasteless, and I'd certainly want to avoid that. (Our staffer's installation, by comparison, is relatively restrained, and will not be mocked here.) But aside from, oh, 70 or 80 more horses under the hood not available without serious mods and a seat more Barcaloungeresque, I really couldn't think of anything I could do to improve my daily ride. Chaps this age suffering from the stereotypical mid-life crisis usually go and trade for a BMW 5-series if the budget permits, or a bitchin' Camaro if it doesn't; I don't see these as reasonable options at this time. Besides, the Camaro is out of production, a blow not only to us recidivist adolescent wannabes, but also to thousands of women named Donna.
Besides, I don't particularly want to feel like a kid again; I was a weedy, inept, generally unwanted kid. I'd just like to find some way to stop feeling so damned old.