There are times when the short people we live with are difficult to please. The rest of the time they are impossible to please.
Last week we purchased a new car--it's not really new and some might question whether it is really a car. While a 1967 Austin Healy Sprite is by no means a family car, unless your family believes adamantly in birth control, for short trips hither and yon it is ideal.
We envisioned the little folks being overwhelmed with the excitement of dashing about in the convertible on a balmy spring day, wind racing through their hair. We visualized glee as they rode around town in the passenger seat of a flashy sportscar. We thought exhilaration.
We received snickers.
There was no comment when I offered to drive two of the short people to school in the Sprite one particularly cold day last week. They simply glanced at each other and nodded, figuring the alternative to driving in that four wheeled toy was plodding through the snow on foot.
Waiting at the curb, the engine idling roughly, I watched their faces as they emerged from the house. They were giggling, but it was not a giggle of delight. It was a dad-is-really-weird giggle.
As the eldest short person opened the door she scrutinized the interior of the car before entering. She looked long at the carpetless floor, the ragged seat, the weathered window.
"Cute, dad," she said, sarcasm oozing from her lips like ketchup from a bottle.
I tried to be positive, telling her she would enjoy the ride. She carefully laid down a piece of writing paper on the seat before sitting down.
"I think you need to clean it up a little," she said, glorying in her understatement.
I told her she would enjoy the ride.
"What's that noise?" When I told her it was the heater she said, "All that noise and cold air too, huh? Cute, dad."
As we pulled out she suggested the radio be switched on to drown out the noise of the heater. When I told her the radio was in the back and not connected, she rolled her eyes in response. I told her with a fancy sportscar there was no need for a radio, the hum of the engine was like music. Her eyes continued rolling.
By the time we reached the corner, the front window was fogged.
"The defroster doesn't work, right?" she asked and answered. I considered asking her to walk the rest of the way, but instead I just smiled and told her how much she was enjoying the ride.
"I think you need to paint it," she said. I reminded her that yellow was her favorite color. She just smirked.
We had reached the school and by now I was sorry I had volunteered my services. I told them both how much they had enjoyed the ride and was met with another burst of giggles. They stumbled out, slammed the door and headed for class. But the the eldest turned as if she had forgotten something and walked back to where I still sat idling.
As she stuck her head in the door, I knew what she was going to say--she was going to thank me for driving them to school and she was going to tell me that she really did like the car and that she couldn't wait until spring when we could drive around with the top down and she was going to tell me how much she had enjoyed the ride.
"I must tell you," (Here it comes, I thought.) "I'm not too impressed." And she turned and disappeared into the school.
I limped home, the fancy sportscar looking more like a hunk of junk with every passing block.... ~T.Stucky
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