The Bean loves cars.
I know a lot of women say that about their husband, but I’m being serious. The Bean is constantly checking out other cars.
He studies them as we drive by them on side streets.
He talks about them when he sees them on billboards.
He reminisces about cars he used to own, daydreams about cars he will one day like to own, and is constantly ogling cars we pass on the freeway like some kind of philandering husband.
It’s an odd sensation. We can drive by a pack of roving 20 year olds in bikinis and he won’t blink an eye (at least while I’m around him), but if we pass by an Aston Martin he practically crawls out the window in an attempt to get closer.
I’d make fun of him, but I’m the same way. The Bean strains to catch glimpses of every Porsche, turbo Miata and 7-series BMW we pass, and I rubberneck every time we pass a horse trailer.
Who am I to judge? The Bean feels about cars the way I feel about horses. Everyone has their passion. It just kind of sucks that both of our passions cost so much money.
I remarked to him once that if he could just feel about horses the way I did, then we’d really have it made.
He didn’t miss a beat in responding. “Horses do ‘do it for me’. I just like mine all crammed under the hood of a sexy German sports car.”
I’d like to say that I understand his passion for automobiles, but I really don’t.
Horses are living, breathing, beautiful creatures that respond in unique ways based on their environment.
A car is a big chunk of metal balanced on four little rolly rubber things. You plug a nozzle into its side, dump a bunch of decayed dinosaur goop into it, shove it full of random crap, people, and discarded fast food bags and sit in it as it moves from point A to point B.
How in the world can that compare with a horse?
I don’t get it. To each his own, I guess.
This morning the Bean and I were running a little ragged.
The Squidgelet had a horrible night. He woke up every hour, whiny and grumpy. Since I’m still on maternity leave and the Bean is running himself into the ground with a full-time job, a part-time job, and full load at the university, the night shift kind of falls to me. I did my best to keep the baby from getting too loud, but since the three of us are all crammed in the same bed, the Bean was up nearly as much as I was.
By the time dawn rolled around, the two of us looked pretty ragged.
Bleary-eyed and bumping into walls, The Bean stumbled into the shower, leaning against the wall in exhaustion.
I dragged after him, yawning hard enough to make my jaw creak.
The two of us talked in sleepy tones, making plans for the day and daydreaming of the uninterrupted sleep and lazy afternoon naps of our youth.
The conversation turned to cars, as it often does with The Bean.
Apparently Porsche has updated their look, and he really appreciates all the minor changes they made.
I’d give you more details, but to be honest I wasn’t really paying attention.
What I did notice was how his voice had suddenly perked up. Whereas moments before he had sounded like he had just survived the Holocaust, his voice now had a bright, eager, warm tone.
In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I would have almost said he sounded aroused.
Crabby and disheveled, I watched him in grumpy silence as he expounded on all the fascinating details that set this particular hunk of metal apart from all the other hunks of metal out there on the road.
As his hands floated in graceful, lustful arcs describing the tight, sexy curves of the car, I finally interrupted him.
After all, enough about the car. More about me!
“You know, I’ve always wondered what kind of car I would be.”
Yeah. I blame the postpartum hormones. It was a stupid question, and I should have known that nothing good could come out of surprising him with a loaded question like that so early in the morning.
“Huh?” replied The Bean, eloquently.
“A car. I was wondering… what kind of car would I be? What do you think?”
I blinked up at him, batting my eyelashes as I waited for his response.
The Bean pondered for a moment, and I held my breath, awaiting my compliment.
Lusciously curvaceous Porsche?
Priceless Aston Martin?
The Bean brightened suddenly. “I know! Mater!”
“Wait…. What?!” I sputtered. “Mater? As in that old rusted, falling apart truck off of Cars?”
“Yeah!” said The Bean, warming to his topic.
“But he’s falling apart! He’s all rusty and gross!” I frowned at him, waiting for him to realize his mistake.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t care that he’s falling apart! He’s easy-going!” replied The Bean happily, as if that solved everything. “Remember him in the field when they go tractor tripping? When that big, angry combine is chasing them?” He grinned over at me. “And Mater is all ‘It’s gonna get you! It’s gonna get you!’ and laughing?”
The Bean poked me playfully. “Yup! You’re Mater!”
With a heavy sigh, I gave up.
I guess it does fit me a bit.