I love cars. I don't care if they're old cars, or new, shiny cars, or fast cars or minivans filled with kids. Somewhere, back in my teenage years, I discovered the allure of horsepower and exhaust fumes and the whirr of an internal combustion engine. Over time, I have come to appreciate the meaning of cars in my life. We all do that - when we sit playing "remember when," we say - "I remember 1984, I was driving the Oldsmobile then." I went through my lean Rambler Station wagon era, my carefree MGB convertible years, and I've settled happily into my Ford Explorer lifestyle. I change my oil every 3,000 miles. I check the water in the radiator. I rotate my tires. Carefree is a broken gas gauge; responsible is having the brakes checked.
Women aren't supposed to know cars. When I am at an antique car show, and I squat down to follow the line of a jet-black fender and admire some beautiful bodywork, men look at me as though I'm a visitor from another planet. I utter the words, "Bondo,......
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