I want to be a man of accomplishments. I believe I possess the potential but for some reason I can't get started. If I was a sports car, I'd do zero to sixty in about, oh I don't know, probably in about an hour or two, give or take.
You see, my engine requires at least twenty minutes of idling time while I'm checking the mirrors, adjusting the seat belts, and fiddling with the GPS before finally deciding that it's been revved enough and I can grasp the steering wheel with both hands and reluctantly toe the accelerator.
Even then I'm backing out of the driveway in reverse rather than just shooting off straight down the highway. And once in the flow of traffic, my impatient aspirations and enthusiasms are riding my tail, bumper to bumper, horns blaring, but I'm one of life's Sunday drivers hogging the fast lane, going nowhere in particular at no great speed.
Horsepower? I prefer to measure my energy output in terms of tortoise-ambles. Suffice it say, the number of tortoise-ambles I expend in a day is not high. But 'slow and steady wins the race' as the fable says. That's what I tell myself at any rate.
Although it often seems like the races I enter these days are the ones nobody else is bothered to run. I wear the laurels of the Obsolete 500, the Head-On Imbroglio, the Impostor's Rally, the Superannuated Grand Prix, and, of course, the Demolition Derby.
Perhaps with a little more ignition I could have been a contender, the pride of the gleaming Lamborghini showroom. Instead I've allowed myself to be shunted out to the back lot, propped up on blocks and soon to be stripped for parts.
Still, you never know. Even after all this time, with a fancy fresh paint job, new high-performance tires, an oil change, and the installation of satellite radio and Wi-Fi, maybe my engine can make a go of it again. A second chance to rip up the road and tear down the tarmac. A New Years beckons, after all, and I still have a chassis to build a dream on.