What kind of car impresses a woman most?
Argue all you want about exotics or muscle cars, but trust me: I can still remember the first date I had with the guy who was the most impressive, car wise, and my awe had nothing to do with either.
I was probably 17, and had been around a few cars (and their owners). I’d dated a Porsche, albeit a tiny 914. One of its popup headlights had a dead motor, and we’d drive around winking at the world. To top things off, after friends and foes alike had jealoused over the car in the roller rink parking lot, we would wait until they’d all left, then call my dad for a boost. All show, literally no go, that baby.
I’d dated a rebuilt Model T, my first dive into the world of car clubs. It turned heads alright, this highlight from another era. It turned more heads when an electrical fire broke out under my feet as we drove, and small children ran from nearby houses with pans of water. For an electrical fire. Bless them.
I recall the Mavericks, the work vans, and the big old Mercurys with stereo speakers in the back seat. The mom cars, the Pintos, the it’s-my-brother’s-I’m-dead-if-you-spill-in-it. For all the teenage stress and commotion about whether a car was cool, would it start, and geez, her last boyfriend had a Mustang, my memory is still impressively stuck on one vehicle in particular: a mid-1970s blue Le Mans. Was it new? Nope. Was it a muscle car? Nope. Tricked out, modified, jacked up? No, no, and no.
My most impressive first date pulled into the driveway in a car that was gleaming from being washed and waxed that day. The interior was immaculate, and the gas gauge needle was buried on the F. I don’t recall that date, I barely recall the boy, but to this day, the only thing that matters to me, regardless of what they drive, is someone who bothers to make it its best.
It’s that simple, and it’s that sexy.