Another Road Trip, Please

It’s time for another road trip. Love my road trips: open the top – the sunroof my consolation for not getting a convertible – and feel the sun soften and dissolve from my face thinking-too-much lines. It’s better than . . . a spa. I ride a 2000 Maxima: Black Beauty is her name. Like drawing silk over skin, she glides over the highways. The Bose sound system spreads bass notes through my chest; trebles tickle my ears. I’d close my eyes in thrilled surrender, but, oops . . . Every six months Beauty’s dressed and polished in turtle wax. Chrome teeth smiles her appreciation. Perfumed vacuuming keeps Beauty internally fresh. She’s protected from New York’s disrespectful climate by an enclosed garage. And I rarely abuse her by driving the city streets – unless necessary, like going to my most favorite store in the world, Costco. A road-trip-to-anywhere represents freedom to me. It’s American. Within thirty minutes, I can cross the border into New Jersey. In two hours, I’m in Delaware. Another hour, Maryland. And on, and on, and on. Not once do I have to show a passport. No request to leave my state or permission to enter another. No armed guards at the borders (no, State Police don’t count). When I hit the road, my head seems to expand with the giddiness of my release from urban restraints. I feel my posture relax into the leather bucket seat that’s cradling me. The speedometer climbs without a body quiver to 50, 60, 70, 80, 85 . . . easily matching the pace of my fellow roadsters. (I truly believe it's mostly law enforcement types that own SUVs. They break all the rules and NEVER get stopped!) As long as I gas up, pay the tolls (E-Z Pass, I love you), and obey, within reason, the speed limits, I’m free to travel the public highways wherever I please. I’m free.