So, while I’ve got you here, let me tell you about my Datsun

Behold my virgin post on my new WordPress page.  I’m not going to lie, I sat through about 8 hours of Youtube videos and one tedious Udemy course just to get this far.  I have no fricken idea if this looks like it’s “supposed” to look but, despite my fragile design skills, I’m feeling cozy here. I’m also feeling a little nervous, like the first time someone handed me the key to my own car – a shitbox, if ever there was one.  She was a Datsun F10, red mixed with rust, with faded go-faster stripes and a stick shift. That’s quite a sexy phrase for manual, isn’t it?

I purchased that car in a state of 18-year-old, obtuse goofiness. I was not only incapable of driving a stick shift, I didn’t even know that driving a stick was any different from driving an automatic.  I forked over $1,300 in hard-earned Friendly’s Ice Cream waitress tips to the giddy man who sold it to me (that man knew a sucker when he saw one) and forced that poor little car to grind the entire 1.8-mile journey to her new home in first gear. She handled it like a damned trooper.  I remember being a little peeved at the little red trooper when, at a particularly hairy and nearly suicidal X-shaped crossing point on the Tobin Bridge, she almost ended both of us. I was heading up the ramp from Storrow Drive, summoning up all my native Masshole driving bravado to cross over onto Route 1 north during the madness of evening rush hour. I down-shifted, right at the crossing point, and the whole stick, knob and all, came off in my hand in a burst of dried-out plastic.  What’s a girl to do?  I jammed that thing back in, hit the gas and kept on trucking.  Story of my life…

The photo above is not my exact little, red F-10, but it’s pretty close.  I miss that car.

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