I'll Take My Mid-Life Crisis In Purple, Please!

I haven't posted about Ty-man's new car on the blog because, well, this isn't frakking Auto Trader and I haven't felt the need.

Now? I do.

Ty was all bitchy about the end-of-lease on his Acura and wailing about the fact that a used Corvette would cost the same as a new Acura. And I was all So what's stopping you? Go get your Corvette. Hey, if my man is going to have a mid-life crisis*, better for it to be a bright-red, soft-top, 6-speed manual shift squatting right in front of me in my garage than a case of Just For Men in the bathroom cabinet. Besides, I can drive the bright red Mid-Life Crisis. I can't do squat with the Just For Men.

So, there I was on Saturday, driving the Mid-Life Crisis. It's a great ride. You literally lay back and listen to the engine attempt to fling itself out of the front of the car. It's an amazing piece of machinery to behold and it scares me shitless every time I drive it, not because I'm intimidated by the machine, but because it's Ty-man's Mid-Life Crisis, his baby, his baby covered in sticky toddler hand prints. If it were my mid-life crisis (ahem: Bugatti Veyron Mazda Miata) I'd be swinging around corners, doing doughnuts on the interstate, and terrorizing the local police force. As it is, I drive that arrest-me red Mid-Life Crisis like some grandma escaping from the local nursing home.

As I made my way home on said stormy Saturday night, I was taking the extra-special shortcut from Cumming to Woodstock. Little did I know the extra-special shortcut was witnessing an extra-special car accident and the main road was blocked. I pulled off the road, accessed the Mid-Life Crisis's nav system and found an alternate route I felt would take me back to the main road far enough west to avoid the accident.

Wrong McIncorrecty Pants.

As I'm driving uphill on Sweetapple Drive, I notice the five cars ahead of me, and that the road has no shoulder. As in we have pavement with ditches on either side. The next thing I know, we're all stopped right at the end of the road where it turns onto the main road and there are blue flashing lights EVERYWHERE. Suddenly, one of those blue flashing lights starts coming down our road, blaring his loudspeaker, telling all of us to get out of the way.

Now, there is NOWHERE to turn around, I am pointed uphill in a stick shift, and if I move over one inch, the Mid-Life Crisis is in a ditch.

To say that I took the Lord's name in vain with every cuss word I know would be an understatement. I even uttered motherf*cker in Bulgarian (thank you, Eva!). Because there I was on a back-country road, no streetlights, WITH DITCHES ON EITHER SIDE OF THE PAVEMENT, trying to back my husband's Mid-Life Crisis up.

I was praying, swearing, nearly-crying, and vowing, from that moment on, to only drive the Mid-Life Crisis on major highways and interstates. Finally, I reached a slight widening in the road and decided it was now or never to turn around. A 12-point turn and five minutes later, I praised the baby Jesus in swaddling clothes in the manger with the donkeys and cows and horses looking down on him. And then I started cussing again because right in front of me, trying to get to the accident, was a bucket truck. Trying to pass me. On the narrow country road with ditches on either side.

Naturally, I panicked, popped the clutch, and killed the engine. Because this is what all cool people in American muscle cars do during a mid-life stormy-accident-back-road crisis.

All ended well. I started the Mid-Life Crisis back up, passed the bucket truck, yelled something out the window about f*cking clutches! and got back to civilization.

And kissed the garage floor when I finally parked Ty-man's Crisis.

*Actually, he's not really having a mid-life crisis. He's a major lover of all things Corvette and this is actually his third Corvette in 12 years. I think if one could marry a car, I'd be history.