Chapter 6

I met Ellen when I was seventeen, almost eighteen, and had just graduated from high school. She was sixteen with two years left to go. I hated my high school, which was different from Ellen’s, obviously. Hated it so much, in fact, that I refused to participate in any of the functions, and this included the senior prom. Which left us with Ellen’s.

And thank God for that.

Because that one night - Ellen’s prom - left an indelible mark on the two of us that would last a lifetime. A lifetime together that nearly didn’t happen, and all because of a fart, of all things.

A fart.

The ‘prom fart’, as I call it.

But more on that later. First, I need to finish telling you about Ellen, Ellen 101, so to speak. And forget 102, because you don’t even want to know.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Now, as far as girlfriends go, when you’re seventeen, Ellen is the living end, the veritable girl of your dreams. She was, I’d say, as good as good could ever get.

For the most part, anyway.

I say ‘for the most part’ because the old adage is true, the one that says that there are no free lunches in life. Everything has a cost, and a HVG (high-value girlfriend) is no exception to the rule.

And the lesson to be had here, boys and girls, and you folks watching at home, is this: you want to drive a Ferrari? Then bring lots of cash, because, make no mistake, the price of admission is steep. Exactly how steep, I really didn’t know. Not at first, anyway. But it didn’t take long to figure it out, and by the time I fully understood what the cost was, it was too late. I was in too deep. I had already crossed that point, the point of no return. I was gone, and there was no coming back. The reason being that once you drive a Ferrari, a Ford or Toyota will never do. Never again. You are ruined for life.

And this was as true for every red-blooded American boy as it was for me. There is simply no going back, ever. It’s just the way we’re wired, just one of the many unwritten rules that apply to every teenage guy’s world.

But, for the benefit of those of you reading this that don’t quite understand this dilemma, I will elaborate some and I’ll use the car analogy to make it all a little easier for you to grasp, since cars are something we can all relate to.

Read on...

Chapter 7

Cars and women.

The two loves in a man’s life, with boats coming in a close third. But basically, it’s cars and women. And it's funny how the two have so much in common, and yet, at the same time, are nothing alike. To the point that you cannot replace one with the other. Not yet, anyway. But who knows, maybe that will change in the future, but as it stands now, at a minimum, a guy tries to keep one of each in his life; which brings up the basic difference between the two: while a woman is a ‘nice to have’ item, sometimes, a car is an absolute necessity, a ‘gotta have’ thing. No getting around it. Too many guys live without a woman in their lives, but I assure you, each one of them indeed owns a car.

And how many guys do I know would pick their car or truck over the woman? You know, if you put a gun to their head and made them choose?

That’s right.

And why not? I mean, cars don’t have periods, no PMS, don’t cheat on you, never lie, don’t give you ulcers, don’t talk back, don’t get jealous, don’t mind if you look at other cars, don’t preach to you about your drug use, don’t complain when you stay out all night with the guys, are always ‘ready to go’ when you are, don’t come with in-laws, don’t have other cars telling them what a piece-of-shit you are... Jesus, the list goes on and on and on.

So, can you blame a guy?

Really?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

The defense rests.

But anyhow, that’s kind of how I’ve always viewed women, in a way, in respect to cars.

This is how I see it...

You see, on one hand, you have the Toyotas, the DADs (dime-a-dozen girls), as I call them, the girls next door. That type.

And these girls, the DADs, are low maintenance, and actually, I’d go so far as to say NO maintenance. None. No changing the oil, checking the tires, doing tune-ups...nothing. Maintenance free. You just hop on and ride them for everything they’re worth, like you rented the things. Rent-A-Bitch, if you will. Or, Date-A-Bitch, for those of you whose sensibilities are easily offended (then why are you reading this story, for God’s sake?).

And you ride these girls long, and you ride them hard, and you keep riding them until their wheels finally fall off. That, or they simply break down - tapped out, spent, and basically, just plain used up. In other words, nothing left to offer. They’ve given it their all, bless their hearts, and there’s simply nothing left, the needle of their fuel gage now firmly planted on the big red 'E'.

And when that happens, they finally give out, you simply coast ‘em to the side of the road – engine smoking, tires wobbling, radiator steaming and hissing, transmission rattling, rear bumper half hanging off and shooting sparks - and park the ol’ gal.

Then, go find another one that still has a few good miles left in her…er, ‘it’.

Repeat as needed.

And that’s easy enough to do. They’re everywhere, the DADs, and they’re cheap. Plenty to be found.

And that’s the DADs, the Toyotas.

And the thing is, if that’s all you ever drove, Toyotas, then you would never once miss the pleasure of, say, a Ferrari, for example. You have nothing to compare to, no frame of reference other than to maybe, on occasion, see one going down the road. And when this happens - you actually see one - you simply admire it from afar and daydream about what it must be like to actually own one, thinking maybe one day you yourself will know what that’s like.

But for most of us, the Toyota guys, that day never comes. So, instead, we do the only thing we can do. We turn to the magazines. I’m talking about magazines like Car and Driver, for example, that let us ogle these magnificent creatures the only way we can, with our eyes, making the car magazines something of a National Geographic inasmuch as they show us places we will never be.

But it’s not just the cars the guys admire from afar; it’s women, too. Guys turn to magazines like Playboy and Penthouse for the same reason – they show us places we’ll never be.

And even though we will never actually ‘be’ there, per se, it doesn’t stop us from daydreaming and fantasizing, staring endlessly at the glossy, color pages that let us imagine ourselves behind the wheel or between the legs.

But magazines don’t keep you warm at night, or hug you back, so yeah, the Toyotas. Good, dependable transportation you can count on. Not only do they serve an important purpose in life, but I can’t imagine having gotten through my teenage years without them.

Then, there is the Ferrari. The legend in both performance and style. Christ! You never even have to actually drive the fucking thing. If all you ever did was sit in the garage every night and stare at it, admiring its exquisite lines and curves, knowing the potential of its powerful V12 power plant, that’s enough. Not only has it earned its keep, but more importantly, that special place in your heart, as well. In fact, I once read somewhere that exotic car owners rarely put more than 2,000 miles on their machine, so, enough said. I rest my case.

And that, my friend, is the high value girlfriend, the HVG. In other words, the Ferrari. And that was Ellen, the car dreams are made of. My dreams.

Now, the problem with all of this is that once you have owned a Ferrari, you’re ruined, for life. You can never again go back to the mundane world of rental cars. In other words, the DADs. It’s just not possible. And even if you somehow found a way to do that, go back, you’re only fooling yourself.  Because deep inside, you know - and will always know - who your one true love really is. Because, sadly enough, you can never forget them. You can never truly erase them from your mind or remove them from your heart. They are a permanent part of you now, and always will be.

And this can be a problem, but only in one regard – you somehow manage to lose your Ferrari. If this happens, you will no doubt have to return to the world of DADs, and for the rest of your life, you will live that lie, the one where you tell yourself that you love your Japanese car; love it every bit as much as you did your fine Italian import.

 And the biggest mistake you could ever make? Somehow accidentally mentioning the Ferrari to the Toyota. You know, like maybe talking in your sleep or something? Maybe accidentally mentioning it during a conversation? BIG mistake, with a capital ‘I fucked up’. A mistake you will pay for the rest of your life.

Fortunately, most guys manage to hang on to their Ferraris, at least that I’m aware of. Still, sometimes the unthinkable happens, and some poor soul manages to lose his beloved car, having somehow let it slip through his fingers. And that’s when you begin living the lie, the Toyota lie, as I call it.

And what is the Toyota lie, exactly?

That’s where you stand in the driveway, can of wax in one hand, polishing cloth in the other, and tenderly, ever so lovingly, caress and rub the Toyota’s bland, everyday finish. Only, it’s not the Toyota you are rubbing. Not at all. It’s the red Ferrari you once owned that you are polishing to exquisite perfection. Caressing it, stroking it, rubbing it, running your hands over every inch of its sexy, seductive body panels… If only in your mind.

And you know what? The Toyota need never know otherwise.

Yep, living the lie.

However, for as long as you own a Ferrari, this is never an issue, going back. It’s not even a thought you dare entertain. Way too scary, although, from time to time, you may experience the occasional bad dream. You know the one, where you’re stuck in prime-time traffic in your dull, twelve-year-old Toyota Corolla with its oxidized gray paint, plain black vinyl floors, and a pine tree air freshener that needed replacing eight months ago.

You know the dream I’m talking about. It’s the same bad dream all of us Ferrari owners have at some point. We’ve all been there, and it goes something like this...

Chapter 8

The nightmare...

So there you sit, the hottest day of the summer, stuck in gridlock traffic and wishing your A/C would somehow magically start working again. But why should it? It hasn’t worked in over three years, so why would today be any different?  Frustrated, you then make the mistake of looking out over the sea of stationary cars surrounding you and realize that not a single one has moved in the last fifteen minutes or so, causing you to wonder what, exactly, separates prime time traffic from a shopping mall parking lot at Christmas.

But that’s easy. Cars in the parking lot tend to move more often.

But you’re bored. The woman you were trying to flirt with in the car next to you has flipped you off. Several times. And the sad thing is, she’s fat and ugly, something you normally consider low-hanging fruit.

But not today, so your ego tries to deflate even more, but that’s just not possible. And making matters worse is the fact that the car’s radio only picks up AM stations now, having lost its FM capabilities at about the same time the springs in the driver’s seat began poking through the worn-out upholstery foam. So, rather than listen to Paul Harvey drone on and on, you decide to pass the time by doing ‘stuck in traffic’ stuff like singing 99 Bottles Of Beer On The Wall, only, you don’t feel much like singing. So instead, you try to think of another comparison…

“Prime time traffic versus...versus... Airport Long Term Parking!”

But again, too easy. Same answer. Cars in long-term parking tend to move more often.

At that point, you simply give up. And since none of the power windows work, you have no other choice but to sit in the hellish heat of the all-black interior and simmer in your own pools of sweat. That’s about the time you begin to think back to better days. Days, for example, when you used to cruise this very same stretch of road in your beautiful, red convertible. A Ferrari Testarossa, no less, the Miami Vice car. The one Sonny drove.

Gone now.

Along with your prestigious, six-figure job in corporate America. Both, casualties of an out-of-control cocaine habit, a story you have recounted time and time again at the local FLA (Ferrari Losers Anonymous) chapter meetings, your way of helping others avoid the horrible mistakes you have made. At least that’s what you tell everyone, but actually, you’re just there for the free donuts and coffee. Things that, for you, are something of a luxury these days.

And that’s where you find yourself tonight, at the local loser meeting, eating loser donuts, and drinking loser coffee. And this - consuming the loser refreshments - somewhat obligates you to participate in the group, so you do. You stand, flatten the curled edges of your ‘Hi, My Name Is’ sticker, and proceed to give your testimony to the other sad, pathetic ghouls that haunt these late-night support groups. And it’s always the same thing. Always the same sad collection of faces week after week, with everyone sitting in their usual spot within the circle of folding metal chairs. And all of this taking place in the middle of some dimly lit, mostly dark, and always gloomy high school gym. They chew their stale donuts, the ghouls do, washing them down with coffee that’s known better days, and listen on as you tell your story of woe…

“Hi, everyone. My name is Fred and I...I... Well, I lost my Ferrari.”

The members respond in unison with a somewhat tired and catatonic…

“Hi Fred!”

The fact is, you are there tonight because you were given a special invitation to join this cozy little gathering; only, what you don’t know is that your invitation was by design. That is to say, you were invited for a very specific reason.

Because, you see, of all the losers in the group, you win the prize, top loser. You are there for the expressed purpose of making all the other losers feel better about themselves and their own miserable lot in life.  Of course, no one tells you this because you’re not a real member. Not really. What you are is a motivational tool, the ultimate example of ‘don’t be this guy’.

And this is your life now, the life of a one-time Ferrari owner turned Toyota driver.

Mercifully, that’s about the time you wake from the dream.

Or was it a dream?

Probably, but you’re not taking any chances. Like a maniac, you race through the living room, through the kitchen, and finally, to the door leading to the garage and throw it open. And there she is, right where you left her, all safe and sound. It was only a bad dream after all. Relieved, you walk up to her, and ever so lovingly, give her a kiss on her gleaming, freshly waxed and polished,  red hood. And then you tell her again just how much you love and adore her.

And then you sleep just fine.

It was just just a dream.

A bad one, sure, but still, only only a dream.

Just the same, you will always live in the shadow of that fear - the day you lose your job as an investment banker due to company downsizing, and suddenly find yourself working at Marty’s Car Wash Emporium for minimum wage, the car wash you once used. The one place you would bring your own own beloved Ferrari to have pampered and spoiled.

But not anymore.

Goodbye, Ferrari, hello used rental car. A Toyota, no less.

And at that point, life will never be good again. Sure, you could endure the loss of the job and income, but what really hurts? The real dagger in your heart?

Losing the love of your life.

Repossessed.

And that hurts. It hurts because you can never get her - or ’it’, rather - out of your heart, no matter how much you wish you could.

And the thing is, afterwards? After that loss?  No matter what Toyota you end up driving, or what cool accessories you buy for it, at the end of the day, it’s still a product of Japan, a DAD.

And you know what hurts even more? The first time you have an urge to put a gun to your temple? The day some guy pulls into the car wash you now work at, driving the Ferrari that once belonged to you, the car you once owned, now parked in some other guy’s garage. Your heart sinks to new lows knowing she’s someone  else’s true love now;, that it’s his polishing cloth gently rubbing and caressing her every sexy line and curve now, the way you once did.

He tosses you the keys, the ones that were once yours, and warns you that he expects nothing less than perfection; that he better not find so much as a single fingerprint or smudge once you’re done. And you understand this only too well. You understand it because it’s the very same words you once used.

And as the new owner  - the ‘new guy’, if you will - drives away in his perfect car, you look down at your hand, the one holding the crisp, new one dollar bill he gave you as a tip. You stare at it knowing that any other man would have balled the bill up and tossed it in the trash out of anger, having been crushed by the cruelty of the gesture. But not you. You won't toss it. Instead, you shove it in your pocket, actually grateful for the generosity. Grateful because it puts you one dollar closer to affording a Smith and Wesson.

And in the meantime, maybe sucking on your Toyota’s tailpipe doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.

Chapter 9

And that was Ellen, the Ferrari. Only, mine came with two major problems:

1) It was capable of original thought, and

2) It had acquired the capacity of speech.

And maybe that would have been the smart play here, to have just stuck with the Japanese cars. Lord knows my life would have been a lot easier, not to mention cheaper. But it’s all academic now. At this point, it is what it is, and in my particular case, I never did go back to the DADs, the Toyotas, and 30 years later, she’s still parked in my garage – or, living room, rather - planted on the sofa, rollers in her hair, obscenely expensive miracle cream on her face, and watching something unbearably sappy on the Hallmark channel. 

And sure, maybe childbirth and the effects of gravity (everything larger, hairier, and closer to the ground) have taken a toll on her once majestic curves, she is still a fine automobile of legendary heritage.

And I still own her.

She’s still mine.

And this may simply be due to the fact that, at our age, we’ve become too fat and lazy, too complacent, neither of us wanting to bother with the ugly, complicated ordeal of divorce.

Yeah, , divorce.

That’s the process - still using the car analogy - whereby you get rid of one car, one you hate, and replace it with another, hopefully better car. One that you love, presumably.

An upgrade.

But you won’t do that, upgrade. Too risky. You could end up with something even worse, so you simply keep what you have and somehow find a way to deal with it - the devil you know versus the one you don’t.

Because, face it. At our age, everything is high mileage and damaged goods; only, you can’t see it. Not the damage, anyway. Not at first. It usually takes a while before you spot it. That’s because the blemishes – the dents, the rust, the faded paint - have all been smoothed over and hidden with Bondo, Bondo and fresh paint. You know, that truth in advertising myth? And it doesn’t stop there, with the dents and rust, it’s everything. There is virtually nothing about a woman that cannot be painted over, colored, dyed, smoothed out, stretched, reshaped, replaced, repackaged, or just plain outright removed. It’s become a mega-billion-dollar industry now.  Even as you read this, we speak, factories everywhere are working nonstop overtime to make sure that women have everything they need to catch the eye of a potential ‘buyer’: pantyhose, padded bras, wigs, hair extensions, girdles, makeup, hair color, eyeliner… Not to mention the fake stuff like eyelashes, fingernails, breasts… Hell, these days, you can’t be sure that’s the color of her eyes is real, even.

In the end, it’s all an illusion, a smoke-and-mirrors thing, meaning that when it comes to shopping for a used car, guys don’t even stand a chance. We are simply no match for people expert in the ways of deception. I’m talking about people who have spent their entire lives practicing and perfecting every these nefarious skills needed to sell us men a bill of goods. The fact is - and always has been -  that guys never have a clue as to what it really is they’ve just driven off the  car lot. That grief, the act of discovery (also known as buyer’s remorse), doesn’t come until later. Much later.

It's a scary business when you stop and think about it - going out in the world and looking for a new companion at our age. .Scary business, indeed.  And what’s worse is, there’s nothing you can do about the to make the whole sordid mess .  No magic pixie dust you can sprinkle that will make any of it any easier, or, at a minimum, at least make sense.  No magic pixie dust you can sprinkle, or voodoo charms you can wear to protect you from the horrors that await. But that will never happen because it’s simply how we’re built.  It’s all part of that mysterious and wonderous thing we call the mating ritual, or, as it’s more commonly known, “dating”.

It’s all part of that strange and little understood aspect of human behavior known as the mating ritual, something none of us has any control over. It’s in our DNA.

Now, I’m sure this process - this ritual, if you will - has changed over time as we humans have evolved and become more civilized, but there was a time when all a guy had to do was spot a woman in the wild, club her over the head, and then drag her by the hair back to his place – or cave, rather. No Starbucks for coffee, no dinner and a movie, just raw, savage, animal instinct.  Too, too Easy peasy.  But that’s all changed now. Since then, we’ve “‘improved”’ things.  For example, we no longer call this primitive process the human mating ritual. These days, it’s known as ‘dating’, and with technology being what it is now, this is how it works…

The Modern Day Mating Ritual

You’re all alone now, lonely and depressed, and longing for the companionship of a female of your species. That being the case, you power up your laptop and log onto an online dating website, one of many, and spend hours and hours poring over the prospective candidates, looking at glamour shot photos taken ten years and forty-five pounds ago, and reading the very carefully, very deliberately, constructed ‘bios’…

“I’m attractive, outgoing, open to new ideas and adventures, passionate, caring, loving, giving... Someone who is looking for a friend and lover, another person to experience the wonders of life with, and simply enjoy our time together.”

Yeah, right. Good luck with that.

You see, the problem here is that when they write this stuff, it’s not really from firsthand experience. They really don’t know ‘how’ to be any of that. But that’s OK, because for them, the I’m-over-30-and-my-resale-value-has-plummeted gals, it’s not about the honesty. It’s more about figuring out the exact words they need to string together in order to get some poor, naive bastard to press the ‘contact’ button on the screen.

And you know what? It may not be a matter of these women intentionally lying to rope you in. Not at all. In their heart and mind, they really would like to be all that. I mean, who wouldn’t, right? It’s that wishful thinking thing, that ‘I’ll be a better person this time. I’ll get this one right, you’ll see!’ pipe dream they all maintain in their mind. But, there’s that one teensy weensy flaw with all this that monkey wrenches the whole deal. That pesky thing called reality, a place these women have never been.

Oh, sure, they’ll maintain that facade for a while, maybe for the first couple of months or so, with the really good ones lasting a bit longer, like maybe a year or more, but face it. That’s a hell of a lot of effort to expend on keeping the illusion alive, and sooner or later, it becomes more work than what any of them are able - or want, even - to keep up with over time. In some cases, they simply decide to drop the charade altogether because, well, they just don’t care. They feel they’ve sunk their vaginal fangs far enough in that it’s now safe to be who they really are, that it’s over for you, that you’re in too deep. Something I call the ‘I’m getting regular sex syndrome’.

Yeah, the ‘I’m getting regular sex’ syndrome.

It’s a weird affliction that somehow manages to blind a guy to a woman’s endless collection of flaws and shortcomings, making her survival in the relationship possible. For a while, anyway, but sooner or later, the cracks in the ice begin to appear, and before you know it, that thing that once set your heart on fire and made your pulse race becomes the reason you quit answering the phone.

And changed jobs.

And moved to another state without giving anyone your new address.

And legally changed your name.

And spent the money on plastic surgery, and...

You get the picture.

But no matter how well they hide it, make no mistake, the damage is there. The dreaded baggage, the permanent emotional scarring, the festering psychological tumors, need for revenge... It’s all there. All the defects. The crunched hoods, the dented quarter panels, the cracked windshields, the ripped upholstery… In other words, a DAD some other guy coasted to the shoulder of the road and abandoned in favor of another one not so used up.

So, yeah. The defects are all there. All there and waiting, biding their time and lurking, waiting for the opportunity to come out of hiding.  And when they do, they raise their hideous heads and reveal themselves, you quickly learn that you’re married to none other than Medusa herself, only she says her name is Margaret, or Debbie, or Rebecca, or, yes, even Ellen.

Again, it’s scary shit.

I mean, you could be the pope himself, and you will still end up paying for every wrong thing every man on the planet has ever done - or ever thought of doing - to the woman you are now involved with, the one you met on the dating website.

So, what it amounts to is this: if I were to write a book on dating for guys, you know, all the “do’s” and “don’ts"? Tip #1 would read something like this...

Dating Tip #1

When meeting a woman for the first time, the first date, always be sure to bring a small vial of holy water along. Then, at some point in the evening when the opportunity presents itself, for example, some type of distraction that causes your date to turn her head (Oh my God! Look at the size of the wart on that woman's face!), quickly shake a few drops of holy water on her and repeat three times:

“The power of Christ compels you”.

If her head starts spinning on her shoulders like Linda Blair, call the waiter over immediately, pay your portion of the bill, and then quickly drive away. Your date is over.

And while the sex with women like this can be off the charts, in the end, it’s simply not worth the eternal damnation you will suffer afterwards. Take it from me, I would know.

And that’s the dating thing. Dating, of course, being the way you upgrade after a divorce.

So, whether you simply stay in the marriage and do your best to deal with it and make it work, or you grow kahunas big enough to take the upgrade plunge, it’s pretty much a dismal proposition anyway you slice it.

But Ellen and I have a good life. I can’t complain. Well, I can, but that would be like the woman complaining about not being able to afford new shoes. That is, until she meets the woman with no feet. Someone always has it worse than you when it comes to marriage - a fact Ellen makes sure I never lose sight of, bless her heart.  Always quick to remind me of just how ‘good’ I’ve got it. And she does this so many times, I begin to believe it myself, to the point that when she mentions the fact that her mother is coming to stay with us for a while, rather than throw my usual tantrum, I simply respond by saying, ‘Yes, dear. I’ll make room in the garage for her broom.’.

It’s part of the brainwashing and conditioning thing women do to men, and that process starts the instant you say ‘I do’, when what you shoulda said is, ‘I dunno about this.’ But you did it. You said the words and signed the dotted line - in blood, no less, only, you don’t know it. And at that point, you are now a married man. You’ve bought the car, and it's now time to make the payments. Payments that are not only painful, but as you will come to learn, ones you will continue to make for the rest of your natural life – life – life (demonic echo effect).

(satanic laughter)

BBBBBBWWWWWWAAAAAHHHHAAAHHHHAAAA. HHHHAAA. HHHAAA. BBBBWWWWAAAA. HHHAAA HHAAHAHA

But no, the payments never stop. You never do pay the fucking thing off. In fact, it actually gets worse with time. The cost of ownership grows and grows and grows, and you notice that the growth rate seems to somehow be related to expanding waistlines, your wife’s, since the two seem to increase at about the same rate, a rate that can only be described as ‘frightening’. And what really sucks? At some point, you don’t even get to start the damn thing up and take it for a ride; those days having long since come to an end. In fact, you never even venture into the garage to admire it anymore, all incentive to do so having dissipated over the years. It is now, to you, nothing more than an ongoing, never-ending expense. Month after endless month, payment after painful payment. It never ends. And while it never ends, it does change. It changes inasmuch as the payments become more and more expensive with each passing year. So, what happens is, you pay and pay, and then at some point, you begin to wonder why. I mean, what’s the point? After all, who in their right mind is going to repossess a dated, 30-year-old car that has long since quit running, and at the same time, has become horrendously expensive to maintain? And, I might add, is in serious need of cosmetic attention. And God forbid you ever need to take it to the Ferrari dealership to be ‘worked’ on, because paying the repair bill means taking out a second mortgage and maybe a second job, even. And for what? A car whose stock has plummeted to an unbelievable all-time low?

It's about this time in exotic car ownership, the declining years, that you start noticing all the newer, younger Toyotas in the mall’s parking lot. The ‘wandering eye’, as it’s known. It’s not something you consciously do, mind you. It’s just something that happens, maybe as a result of wishful thinking, or wondering what your life may have been like if you could have somehow come to terms with owning a Japanese car, instead. That kinda thing. But it’s a little too late for that. Too late, because your car shopping days are over now, my friend. Shoulda spent that money on a gym membership or invested in some hair plugs, or maybe both.

So, yeah, I’ve paid. Plenty. And at times, the price has been quite high, not to mention painful.

Did I mention painful?

But again, it’s not a complaint. Not really.

Well, it is, but not a valid one.

Why do I feel that way? That the complaints are neither here nor there? That they don’t really matter?

Because.

Because the road Ellen and I have traveled over the years is no more fraught with bumps and potholes than the next couple. Because, face it.  The bumps and potholes are just a fact of life. A fact that affects me, you - everyone. No one is immune.

And complaining about it doesn’t change a thing. They will always be there, the bumps and potholes. They never go away. And, in my humble, personal opinion, they are the only thing, in fact, that is predictable about life - that from time to time, you will surely hit one.

And this is true no matter who you share a name or bed with.

And Ellen and I have hit plenty...potholes, that is, and we’re still together. And you know what? Just between you and me? I’d do it all again. For better or worse.

Why?

Because, for some reason I can’t explain, I still love her. She’s still my Ferrari, and I still own her.

…I think.

So, do I have complaints? Sure, I do. Just like you. Are they valid? Not in the least. Why? Because they are just part of the landscape. The cost of doing business, if you will.

And what a funny business it is, the business of life.

So delicate and so frail.