Over the years, we have realized that C is missing some of the typical male genetic material. Among the missing? The Car Gene.

You know the one. It is responsible for the guy-like knowledge of cars.
“Honey, what kind of car do I drive again?”
It is responsible for the desire to attend car shows and read car magazines.
It is the one that imparts wisdom in all things mechanical and a primal joy in grease beneath fingernails.
“There are different kinds of oil? Can’t you just put in what you did last time?”
It is the source of dreams about the “perfect” car.
“What do you mean you won’t ride in my car. Just because it is a 10 year old Crown Victoria with cab yellow showing through the smurf blue paint? This car is a wonderful boat of a car–and it only cost me $50. People want this car. I can tell. Every time I drive it, they stare at em at the stop lights.”

That gene is, for the most part, missing.

Which is not to say that I escape completely. There are other markers in my double helix that try to pick up the slack and fill in the gaps. My Super Hero gene, for instance.

When I a teenager, the first “true” Batman movie came out. As a promotion, MTV held a contest where the newly designed Batmobile was the prize. I wanted that car. I was, almost, obsessed. I didn’t win. In retrospect, that was a good thing.

The car-lust subsided back to its mostly non-existent level.

Until today.

After reading this article, I’m afraid I have a serious case of car envy once again.

I’ve already got the ring tone to match it…

Of course, I’m older and wiser now. I know I could never afford to buy this car.
But I don’t have to buy that one.
I can make it.

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