Years have passed and I still don’t own that purple Porsche.  We do have a purplish-blue SUV that, thankfully, gives my husband that King of the Road feeling one gets sitting seven feet above the highway.  We switch every now and then, and even though an occasional dose of this yuppie car marketed as some kind of “sporting vehicle” gives me a sense of conformity, I still can’t wait to get my twice built stick-shift back in hand. 

I guess I was never meant to go along with the crowd.  I’d rather see them waving in my dust.

Jeff still attempts to sway me to the minivan side of the street.  We have since taken on a soccer team and do have to haul goals and balls and the occasional child around.  I stand my ground.   We Americans do have this thing about big open spaces.  But I prefer them outside.

I close my eyes and see myself cradled in a small space-like capsule zipping around the country.   At least my kids understand.

 “Hey, Mom, there goes your car,” they say as a Porsche zooms by. 

 “Where would you sit?”  I ask them. 

 “Don’t worry.  We’d squish in the back!” 

---  Malerie Yolen-Cohen is a freelance writer based in Stamford, Conn.

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