Overcoming the "Ballad of Lucy Jordan" Curse (an extended, unrealistic fantasy)
I've been a little obsessed with convertibles lately (an odd fact considering my license has lapsed and because of this the state of New York basically treats me like a 15-year-old who has never driven a car, but I digress). I've been particularly fixated on vintage convertibles—of which you can find hundreds of truly stellar options on eBay. I imagine if I bought this cute red '71 Mercedes convertible I'd drive it from Florida, head straight to Louisiana, pick up a hot Zydeco singer, and travel the country wearing tank dresses, playing the accordion, and learning Creole French. Or maybe I'd take one of those empowering-lady trips, abduct my sister, and we'd wrap our heads in beautiful vintage Hermès scarves and roll through pastoral New England drinking champagne and occasionally stopping for a lobster dinner in some salty-fisherman town. But the true, true deep reason I need to have a convertible (and somehow transport it to Paris) is to overcome what I like to call the "Ballad of Lucy Jordan" curse. The first time I heard this Marianne Faithfull song ("At the age of thirty-seven she realized she'd never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair..."), I thought, "Gosh, that's depressing. That is so not going to be me." It's time to buy the sports car. Or, well, at least rent one for a day.
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