On my way to Kroger this morning, I was struck by the particular blueness of the wildflowers on the side of the road. ( I think if I ever searched my posts for all of the times I've used variations of the phrase "on my way to Kroger" I would die of embarrassment. Or sheer depression. But I've digressed.) These flowers -- some might call them weeds, because they are unplanned and not carefully placed in carefully tended gardens, but I've always liked wild, unplanned flowers more than I like cultivated ones -- really called to me today. Perhaps it was the way the early morning sun was lighting them -- giving them an almost unearthly glow and definition. Perhaps I was just in the right frame of mind to be beckoned by something wild and beautiful. For whatever reason, their role in the landscape took on more importance than it perhaps deserved as I made my emergency run for half and half.
I mused on their lovely hue -- and how it resembled the blue of the sky when the sky is such that you can't help but be happy. Blue flowers, I thought, blue skies, blue jeans, blue moon, blue blue my world is blue, blue jean baby, somebody turned the blues on me, I got the Sunday morning out of half and half running to Kroger blues.
Would you think I was making it up for the sake of the story to say that I parked next to a blue van when I got there? Because I'm totally not.
We almost bought a blue car this week.
I am not a car chick. Tom will argue this point -- because I turn to goo at the sight of old muscle cars or new muscle cars that look like old muscle cars or even some high end performance sport cars. They appeal to me on an almost visceral level for one and only one reason -- they are beautiful. My attraction is entirely superficial. I like the sexy, powerful lines. Open the hood to show off the hooziewhatsits and that's where a true car chick or car dude will start to show signs of what often appears to be physical arousal. I'll take a glance at it then wander back to reverently touch the upholstery or the dashboard. True car chicks and dudes are cringing -- amazed that I don't want to wax rhapsodic about torques or valves or any other number of things that hold absolutely no interest or meaning for me whatsoever except for the fact that they're housed in a bitchin' chassis.
My favorite favorite, bar none, is a Mustang. Make it a convertible and I become sort of incoherent.
My Accord is on its last legs and my life is -- hmmmm -- not where I'd expected it to be in these, the middle years. Tom thought maybe putting me in my dream car would put me back on the road to things making sense. I do like that Tom. Long story short, we ended up test-driving a couple Mustangs that we thought were in our price range. Both were blue. Like sunny skies and wild flowers and everything that is good and right and sweet and true. But when we actually brought ourselves out of the clouds and thought about it we realized that it is not quite the right time for us. I could run to Kroger and pick up half and half, maybe, but I couldn't haul the groceries for the four of us for the week. I could get the girls to their appointments and lessons and practices, but it would be cramped and uncomfortable for them. It just wasn't worth pushing our budget to its absolute limit so that I could soothe what is probably essentially a midlife crisis.
Opting out was the right thing to do and we both slept better once the decision was made.
And we did just buy an uh-maze-ing new tandem which we should take possession of by the middle of this week. Tom says we'll need new shoes and helmets. Maybe they come in blue.