Picture this: You’re a single woman, and recently you’ve had the opportunity to invite a good-looking guy into your car. He’s 6’2, has broad, sexy shoulders, smooth dark skin and a smile that could rock your world. His voice can only be described as Motown.
As the pair of you walk towards the carpark, he asks you which car is yours. You say “the black one over there” as you click the keyless entry and your car responds by flashing her headlights.
And then the awkward silence hits.
I currently drive a 2009 Kia Grand Carnival. It’s a beautiful car, and can hold eight people, has five anchor points for child restraints, side curtain airbags and a five star safety rating. I have named her Black Betty, but let’s face it, she’s hardly sex on wheels.
Mr. Motown climbs in, turns to look at the second and third row of seating and stares. I can assure you he isn’t admiring the fact that both child restrains had matching fabric. He was probably experiencing a wave of terror.
“How many kids you say you had?” he says. His voice is no longer Motown, more like Steve Urkel. It’s as though the sight of my child restraints had shrunk his balls to the size of two tiny peas.
This isn’t the first time I was witness to such ball-shrinkage within my car. Other comments have included (and must be read with maximum sarcasm and high pitch):
“Gee, the child seats add a really nice touch.”
“Oh, that’s just lovely.”
“Is that a cheeseburger pickle?”
Let me not forget about the time I met a dude at a local shopping centre for a coffee. He sent me a text saying he was on his way and riding his bike. I ask him if he was wearing leather or lycra and fantasised about which one I find sexier.
It turned out that he was wearing a tracksuit and he forgot to bring a bike lock for his precious mountain bike. Before I knew it, there was a bike in my handy van and a helmet-wearing man in the front passenger seat.
We never made it to coffee; the whole experience was just too stressful. If I was the proud owner of a pair of gonads, they too would have shrunk while he was navigating his bike into my car. All I could do was screech “Don’t scratch my car!”. Ironic, because the filthy state of my car is so bad that I tell the boys to always close the windows to prevent people from putting rubbish in.