I was stopped at a red light the other day. A shiny, black, Ford Mustang pulled up next to me. When the light turned green the hot shot behind the wheel punched it, squealed his tires and sped off. Less than a minute later I pulled up next to him at the red light up the street – all that show for nothing. As I chuckled to myself, I thought back to the only time I rode in a Mustang.
Like the one next to me at the stoplight, this car was black and shimmering from a fresh wax job. Inside, the dashboard was black and the seats were black leather. It was one hot car. And I mean literally – it was mid-August and the temperature inside the car had to be close to 130 degrees. The seats scorched and stuck to the sweat in the backs of my knees. The door handle sizzled to touch. Even the air burned as I breathed it in.
But that was nothing compared to what my buddy had to endure in the driver’s seat. He started the car, rolled down the windows, cranked up the air conditioning and waited. He eyed the steering wheel and chrome shifter with a noticeable wince. Then he looked at me and said, “Don’t think less of me.”
Before I could ask what he meant, he reached under his seat and pulled out a pair of oven mitts and proceeded to drive us away.
“Some people wear gloves in the winter, I wear mine in the summer,” he said with a bashful grin.
What is it with Mustang drivers and all that show for nothing?