Since I stopped drinking, I have been remembering things that I used to enjoy out of life. I used to try new things. I would make bold and brash decisions. I wasn't afraid to take risks. Well, no more. I am reclaiming that aspect of my life, only now, I am older and I REALLY don't give a fuck this time around. Kind of like old people when they let out a fart in public and don't acknowledge the fact that they just farted. They simply don't give a fuck. I'm not at that level yet, but I'm getting there.
Clearly, false advertising.
In the past, I've made many questionable decisions - decisions that no one could ever possibly talk me out of making. Most notorious of these decisions was the purchase of Joan, the 1989 Saab that would consume every penny I made for the next three years. Even after the entire exhaust system fell out in Boston just a few days after I purchased her - not even when the front bumper fell off a week later - I was convinced Joan was the car for me. What she embodied was my freedom. My freedom to make decisions on my own, even if they weren't popular, or were just plain stupid. Yes, stupid. There. I admit it. But do I regret it? Not one bit.
This is exactly what it should look like.
Fast-forward to the summer of 2009. A bunch of friends and I planned a trip to Portugal and Spain. While on that trip, I saw a car that I absolutely fell in love with the moment I laid my eyes on it. It was the Fiat 500. This car was incredibly tiny and quite possibly the most beautiful piece of modern automobile styling that had crossed my path in quite a while. It was love at first sight, like when Joan and I first met. However, this time it was a bit different. I knew I could drool all over the Fiat because I knew I could never have one. After all, they don't import Fiat's in the U.S. I was safe and so was my pocketbook. I could silently obsess over a car that I could never have and no one would know and life would go on and that would be that. Until...
This is when I thank George Bush for the one thing he didn't do. I thank Mr. Bush for sitting on his ass and allowing the economy to crumble to the point where Italy, yes, Italy came in and helped us out. If it weren't for his stupidity, I wouldn't be doing what I am doing right now. I am currently waiting (sort of patiently) for the arrival of my new Fiat 500. You heard me right. Because of George Bush's 8 years in office, the economy tanked, and so did a lot of big businesses, including two of the three big auto companies in the U.S. One of which was Chrysler, who was then picked up by Fiat. Turns out that Fiat picked up Chrysler as a strategic move to re-enter the U.S. and Canadian market - that, and because they knew I had to have one. Well, to all my friends who thought I was doomed to a life of Toyotas, Hondas, and Nissans after the whole Joan fiasco, I say, "I'm back!". Back to making decisions based on what I want no matter how irrational it is, not what Consumer Reports tells me what I need based on how reliable it is. My friend Sofia has also recently seen this light. A couple years ago we were sitting in a Honda Fit at a Honda Dealership, hoping for a test drive (although no one bothered to help us, which was almost kind of nice). Recently, she admitted to me that she doesn't want what people tell her she should get, i.e. a boring, reliable car like a Fit. No. She wants a BMW 2002. Not a 2002 BMW. No. That's way too reliable. She wants a 1970's BMW 2002. A neat car that definitely has a cult following, and probably will have as many, if not more problems than my Saab. I completely understand - both why she wants this car AND why remain good friends. (By the way, we're checking out a dog for her this afternoon.)
Sofia, I can see you now. Broken down on Caesar Chavez Street.
This past week, I also went for a new pair of glasses. I asked my friend Rosa to come with me because she knows a few things about fashion that I don't, although I see nothing wrong with striped, polo shirts from Old Navy. I knew that she would find a frame that fit both my fat head and the new direction that I was embarking on in life. Apparently, I made the remark that the frames had to go with my new Fiat. Who am I? In the end, I decided on a frame that Rosa described as something a German architect would wear. Sold. They will be ready in about 2 weeks.
Hey. I'm French.
To end this first week of life without wine, I was looking at my scruffy face in the mirror yesterday, and I had an epiphany. Kind of like when Roy finally figured out why he was building a mountain that resembled Devil's Tower in his kitchen in the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It was a moment of clarity at that moment. I was going to grow a beard. I have never grown a beard. In fact, my facial hair resembles that of a pubescent teenage boy. It's pathetic, really, but try I must. I might as well ride this wave of change in my life while I feel good about it. Normally I would shave it off and wait a week and shave it off again. No. This time I am going to stave off the itchiness that persists and see how I like the look. I like it. So far, everyone I have told about my new look asks with a bit of apprehension, "How long are you planning on growing it?". Thanks guys. Give me some credit! At the rate of growth I have seen so far, I'll have a job as a Mall Santa by Christmas time in December.
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