Come to think of it,
you can become your aspiration.
I aspired to be like Margot, or so I said many a time. Born in Germany, this classy dame survived the horrors of World War II, won a scholarship to the University of Miami (where she met and subsequently married Dick), had a family, and became a successful lawyer. Not only did she love deeply and travel extensively, but she also drove cars with a passion. I met her in Arlington, Virginia. Poised and graceful, she wore her life like a finely tailored suit.
“When I grow up,” I used to say, “I want to be Margot.”
“You can’t,” she chided one day in her clipped German accent. “Because then you would have to have been me. You’ve got yourself a good life. Just live it.”
That conversation reemerged recently in the customer service lounge of a car dealership—not because Margot loved cars, but because I wanted an assessment of one.
My husband Bob and I have a 2019 Honda Accord Sport with a .5L turbocharged four-cylinder engine and a six-speed manual transmission. It’s sleek and peppy with low mileage, but we, alas, are not. So, I took it to AutoNation to get an idea of its worth.
As I sat in the customer lounge, a thirtyish woman approached me.
“Are you the woman with the black Accord?”
I nodded, expecting feedback on its value.
“It’s a six-speed,” she said.
“Yes, it is.”
“I’ve never seen a car like that with a manual transmission.” Her eyes got big. “How did you learn to drive it?”
Memories of jerky starts on snowy inclines flooded my consciousness. I grinned.
“My first car was a 1963 Volkswagen Beetle with a four-speed manual transmission and a fold-back sunroof. If I wanted to drive it, I had to learn to drive it. Most of my cars since then have been standards.”
“Do you see that white bike out there?” She pointed to a motorcycle parked in the breezeway. I did. “It’s mine. It’s a manual transmission.”
“Wow,” I said, trying to sound impressed. I thought all motorcycles had manual transmissions.
“That’s a beautiful car,” she continued, directing the attention back to the Accord.
“Yes. It is. But my husband and I are getting older, and it’s hard to get in and out of. So, we’re starting to look at alternatives. But I tell you, I’m going to miss driving it down Treeline.”
I was referring to a four-mile, four-lane, 45-mph divided roadway with lots of easy curves and no traffic lights. As I sat in a comfortable chair in the lounge, I mimed the shifting-turning-shifting sequence, accompanied by a thrusting rrrrr, rrrrr, rrrrr sound effect.
She laughed. “I hope someday I can be as cool as you.”
In an instant, the polished concrete and shiny chrome of a mundane dealership lounge morphed into a magic looking glass.
Mirror, mirror on the floor, I asked, who’s the cheekiest of them all?
I saw Margot, who transmogrified into me, and I into a young biker. Before the magic mirror dissolved into pixie dust, I caught my breath. Sometimes, I realized, you really can become your aspiration.
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