Is driving a sporty convertible a sign of a senior-life crisis?

In 1989, I was living in Orange County, California. One afternoon, I was out for a drive with the woman whom I would marry a year later. We saw this billboard with a sporty little blue convertible. It was the first time we saw a Mazda Miata. She looked at me and said, “You’re going to buy one of those, aren’t you?” I think I laughed, but I knew she was right. I wanted a Miata.

There was one problem—I wasn’t the only one. There was a long waiting list for the car. I gave my local Mazda dealer a thousand-dollar deposit. He said, “We’ll call you when we have one available. It may be a couple of months.” He never called.

It was probably a good thing I didn’t buy the Miata. Within three years, we produced two tiny daughters and the back seat of that car wasn’t meant for kids and car seats.

I was reminded of the story last week. It was a chilly and windy day. We were out driving somewhere, with the heat on, when a Miata, with the convertible top down, pulled up next to us. When I looked over, there were two older guys, with whatever grey hair they had left blowing in the wind. After I was done laughing, I looked at my partner and asked, “Mid-life crisis?” But, here’s the thing—are you having a mid-life crisis at age seventy? At least, there wasn’t a twenty-something-year-old blonde woman in the passenger seat.

A few days later, I was waiting for a bus in the city. Pulling up at the stoplight was another red Miata. It was the same scenario—two older balding guys. It was a good thing for them that they had very little hair to blow around. Pulling up next to the car was a motorcycle. They had a short conversation:

Motorcycle guy: Cool car! Miata dude: Fuckin’ A

Seriously! People still talk like that? It would be like an uncensored version of Beavis and Butthead.

I do get the thing about wanting to own and drive a convertible. I’ve owned three of them in my life. But the last time I was at the Chicago Auto Show, I saw a Miata and tried to get into it. The sounds that came out of my mouth were similar to Monica Seles after she was serving a tennis ball at Wimbledon.

I also do get this senior-life crisis thing. But, at this point, instead of trying to get into a small sports car, how about trying to stay out of the obituary section of the newspaper!! Fuckin’A!!