Last weekend, I went to Perkins for lunch with my parents. It's one of my very favorite places, largely because it produces the "chicken crisp melt," formerly the "chicken tender melt," otherwise known as the CTM. If you haven't tried it, you must. But I digress.
My dad parked his car (in the shade of course) right next to a bright yellow Mazda Miata convertible. He immediately leaned over to check it out and starting waxing poetic about how nice it would be to have such a sporty vehicle to zip around in during the summer months. Just as we were heading into the restaurant, a couple in their mid-80s emerged and happened to overhear his comments.
"It's not for sale," the man said, adjusting his Navy veteran cap and smiling broadly.
"That's yours?" asked my dad.
"Yep. Bought it last year. Only 19,000 miles on it."
"Well, good for you for getting a snappy little car like that!" said my mom.
I looked back at the Miata, a vehicular manifestation of well-earned discretionary income. These oldsters had the moxie to pump as many RPMs as would fit into their remaining years, and I had to admire that. I hope when I'm 80 I'm moving under my own power, much less driving, much less driving something awesome.
Maybe I better back off those CTMs.