Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Oli is getting a new car. The lease on her car is up next month, therefore, it’s time for another.

Oli’s first car was a black Beretta GTZ, fully loaded, rear spoiler, and windows tinted to maximum darkness. She loved that car, but their time together was cut short by one bad incident too many: it was prone to bad karma. First it started leaking green slime, then a rad cap blew off, then the brake pads fell out. This doesn’t include a certain road accident in small town America; the time her hood blew backwards and broke her windshield thanks to a dimwitted customs official, or when the teeny bopper across the street backed into the passenger side, full force.

Her second car was an Acura Integra, which was stolen right off our parents’ driveway. It was later found on blocks in Little Italy, stripped to the bone and a sad, forlorn mess, a far cry from its glorious racing days with my sister.

The same time this happened, our Dad was in the market for a Benz, and took Oli to the dealership with him. She kept walking back to this gorgeous silver C230 that she thought would cost a fortune, but thanks to our Dad’s seniority, ended up being very affordable. Baby’s first lease.

The German’s know their autos, and her three years passed without incident or complaint, So much so, that she continued on at Mercedes with a little number flip and a pewter C320.

(Pewter, silver… I don’t think there’s much difference between the two, but don’t tell Oli. She swears it’s something special)

The C320 came home to another three more happy years, but the lease is near over, and it’s time for a change. And so, Oli took me along to the Mercedes dealership just this last Saturday, where she test drove two cars.

First was the B200 turbo. Smooth ride, tons of trunk space, but it looked like a cross between Mork Ork’s space egg, and a Bavarian ambulance. I joked with Oli about the backseat having enough room for three baby car seats.

Second was the C280 Avant Garde Edition. Avant Garde is French for funky, cutting edge, dazzle your senses, and probably sounds a lot better than the German counterpart, “Uber Coolhausen!”

She liked the car. I liked the car. We left the dealership with prices to ponder.

Oli called me today, after the salesmen called her. Gotta love salesmen and how they hound you to the ends of the earth. But she didn’t call me with price options, she called to divulge what he’d said about me.

Apparently, dude asked if I’d be interested in a Mercedes. Again, gotta love salesmen. He’d seen my new Joey in the parking lot. Oli reminded him I had a Mini. “And then he said, ‘Your sister looks like a rebel. I can see her really booting around the city in that car.’”

Wow. Me, a rebel. Me, booting around the city in my car. All around, again, Wow.

What is the point of this story? For me to gloat over a nice compliment? For me to bask in my own rebel-ness?

The point of this story is that someone said something really cool about me about Oli. Do you know what they were telling her last year?

“Why does your sister look so sad all the time?”

“She has a nice face. She should smile more.”

“Is she okay?”

And etc.

Now, I’m a rebel hightailing in my car. At least according to a middle-aged Mercedes salesman.

Today was a good day.