If you drove by me topless between 2003 and 2004, then YOU'RE to blame! Now my English teacher friend corrected me for writing topless in the same sentence where I referenced driving my convertible. "Leisa, we must be clear that it was the car, not you, that was topless." Oh, but, I wrote back in our Face-less Book banter: "I say it all the time and it never ceases to raise eyebrows. I like that. And," I retorted, "I studied journalism and I R one!"
My convertible lust began sometime around spring of 2003. I'd spend Saturday mornings in bed, the laptop heating my legs thighs beneath the covers as I nearly burned up its' motor searching for deals. I got the deal of the decade when my dear old maid aunt died (did I write that? But, it's true!) and sent me a check. I cashed it the day after I totaled my Honda Accord. (I promise I didn't do it on purpose.) I paid cash for that topless baby and I've put the pedal to the metal more than 160,000 miles worth since that crash to cash occurred in the fall of 2004.
I love that car. She's my Divorce Mobile. I got her about the time I declared the Big D with The Wuzband. I was able to scratch that itch caused by convertible lust every time I passed some free spirited gal or dude whipping their manes and/or spirits in the wind. Oh, there's something about going topless on a perfect fall or spring day. There's something about cranking Sheryl Crowe and blasting down the interstate, flinging away your cares. It's therapy, I tell you. Sometimes I refer to the old gal as the Therapy Mobile.
And, though I satiated the the itch to own a convertible, sometimes there is an equally demanding itch that begs me...Ahhhh--to click a button, raise the roof and go topless.
Sing on Sheryl. Here I come. Topless. (Did I just write that?!)