I owe you an update on my Volkswagen Beetle. You've heard how thrilled I was to own one, and I haven't had a moment's trouble. From the car.
The Beetle I bought is a beige convertible. Car people call it a camel ragtop. It is what it is.
I think it should be re-named the Rodney Dangerfieldmobile. Driving it, I get no respect.
People in every other make and model are passing me up, cutting me off, going around me, and generally letting me know that their Dodges and Subarus are much more important than my Beetle. Much more stature and substance.
It's something I've never experienced before, and I certainly wasn't prepared. Of course I'm evolved enough to understand that it's just envy. Piston envy, I guess.
These so-called other motorists have undoubtedly been wanting a VW Beetle since they were in high school, at home studying for their drivers' license eye tests. They've always wanted a car that gets in small parking places, has a trunk big enough for a loaf of bread, and no ego. In other words, a car that either says they're cool or on the runway for take-off to their midlife crises.
I really don't know how to get even with them. My driving is pretty normal and I want it to stay that way. I certainly can't tell grown men that they wasted their youth, that love makes the world go 'round, and that they should stop and smell the roses instead of cutting me off at the corner.
Incidentally, it's always men who are this rude and ruthless. The women are too busy on their cellphones to notice.
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