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car with balls

When I was young, women also drove cars. Usually in those of their husbands. Or they had their own little car that was colloquially called ‘the shopping car’. Because we, we were at home from the kitchen and on the road we were in the shopping car. I was too young to have an opinion about it, but I did notice it.

Until I met her, let's call her Lea. She was related to my uncle, definitely had a partner but lived together out of conviction. Later she got married, but to lift the bourgeoisie a bit, she thought they should live at two addresses. Because it all had to remain a bit exciting, of course.

”Nice even bigger and cooler and hipper than her husband's”

And yes, she also had a car. Not that her husband's car was good enough and never that she would give in to a shopping car. No, she bought herself a brand new, non-Dutch yellow Renault Mégane. Convertible. Nice even bigger and cooler and hipper than her husband's. What am I saying, than that of all the men in the street. And it was at that moment that I thought; someday. Must, want and will I have one too.

I had to wait a bit for it. About twenty years, give or take, but now I have one too. I now zoom down the road in my own brand new, bright red Renault Mégane. Five-door and at least as cool as Lea's. Only mine has a much larger trunk. Those twenty years of waiting have certainly yielded something.