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It’s called an Aston Martin.  And it’s a car–not a person (more on that sometime).  That costs a lot of money.  And goes real fast, if you want it to.  And that’s about all I know.

But if you’re like  my husband, your eyes will actually twinkle when you say ‘Aston Martin’ and you’ll nod your head a certain way and find yourself saying, “that’s what I’m talking about.”  Though you haven’t really said anything.  On some occasion you’ll have shown your wife a picture of the car in the Motor Trends magazine, and you’ll have tried to jog her memory by saying, “you know, the car that was in the last James Bond movie.”  Only she can scarcely remember the people in the movie and was pretty sure all the cars looked the same.

But not so.  The Aston Martin…THE white Aston Martin…the one my husband drove from western Washington to my parents’ house in Wenatchee and which is resting in my parents’ driveway, is a sight to behold.  To touch. To open the door and sit in.  Which was all I’d done until this morning.

Mind you, I love our blue Sienna–there’s room for everyone.  And their bikes.  But friend, it is no race car.

And so sometimes, I guess, even though it hasn’t been my dream to squeeze into a tiny compartment and sit behind the power of a rocket, I’m certainly okay pretending it was today.  Which is why I scrambled behind the driver’s wheel and surmised, “this ain’t so bad.”  And then we drove it.

First of all (I know because I looked at it before I got in) the dash does not point up to the sky.  But it might as well. Between the thrummmm rum rum rum of the engine idling and my head pressed against the seatback, it’s uncertain if we’re preparing to launch or if we’re just backing this baby out.

And then we’re gone.  And my husband is shifting the paddles on the steering wheel, and I am breathing in the hand-stitched leather seats and we’re both ogling over the control panel.  At least my husband is, and I’m nodding.  But it’s infectious.  Call it ‘cool car syndrome’ or what have you, but I suddenly want to see what this purty white thing can do.

And so we start for that hill that heads into Wenatchee, the one you can easily get a ticket on, and we slow to pull off, whip the car around and face the hill.  We’re motionless for a moment.  And then my husband asks, “ready?”  And I am, I think.  And we’re outta there.  Zero to Ninety-something, uphill…in seconds.  Me likey

Only we’re in a 45mph zone now, and I am suddenly myself again, and desperately do not want a ticket.  And since there is no button on the dash that will make breakfast appear, it’s back to my parents’ driveway.

And it’s back to our anniversary.  Our tenth.  The one we will remember even if it’s just for the part about test-driving the white Aston Martin.

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No Responses to “It was a white Aston Martin”

  1. Dan says:

    So… how does on test drive/borrow such a beauty?

    • jeannem32 says:

      Haha…I like it. It’s all about who you know, I suppose. And then who they know. For Troy, it was the husband of one of the gals who works for him. He’s the sole Aston mechanic around here. In the state, anyway. Sweet, eh?

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