My Camaro was a divine thing to drive. It gave me the feeling of getting away with something, a euphoric mix of naughtiness and irreverence. 

 The first day I saw it, I knew it would be mine. The radio was already tuned to a rock station when I first turned the key. Judas Priest was on. The car spoke to me in the language of machines, a deep vibration on a wavelength that resonated with my own. It told me that rules were for sissies and that we were going to have lots of fun together. I had to agree. 

She is a girl car. Low-slung and sensuous, she is a dark midnight blue, a good color for slinking around in the night. She is a stealthy machine. I adored her lines and form, her disregard of decorum and her snarly roar. She is the car that bursts on the highway from a hidden onramp, tells a lewd joke and leaves everyone behind with a throaty laugh and a plume of exhaust. She could express jubilation or disgust with a touch of the gas pedal. Her eloquence came in squeals of tire and rooster-tails of loose gravel. She had the curves of an Italian hillside but the personality of an unrefined wild woman. 

I will miss her. I can't lie. Her time had come to move on but I hate to see her go. Her backseat was no longer the place for my son now that he is a long-legged thirteen year old. Riding in the backseat of a Camaro is like getting the shitty flight to Shanghai.

But driving a Camaro is like great sex. Phenomenal, pinned up against a wall sex. It puts a smile on your face just thinking about it, driving the car, that is. It's the kind of ride that makes you feel like you are on top of the world even when your job sucks, you have no money, and everyone hates you. You can get by as long as you have a sweet ride. It makes you awesome by extension of its awesomeness.

Today, a dad and his 18 year old daughter came by to look over my baby girl. The daughter reminded me of myself at 18. There was an instant recognition. She seemed a touch naive, but polite and very excited about the car. The dark rimmed glasses she wore gave her a studious look that masked her underlying mischievous nature. She giggled nervously and occasionally swept her bleach blond hair out of her green eyes. Her dad said she just wrecked her 91 Firebird and he needed to get her another car. She was supposed to save for this, but he had the cash and was thrilled to find a Camaro in such good condition. He handed me the cash and I signed over the title. He will be by tomorrow night to collect his prize.

Signing the title over felt like a relief. I would have money to pay the bills. But a part of me wanted to get behind the wheel and tear off down the road. I feel sad that she has one more night in my driveway. The first night I had her, I sat out in the driveway and soaked in the presence of a vehicle of such power and might, of such aesthetically pleasing form and color. She was perfect.

I know the daughter is thrilled right now. She's probably wide awake, in anticipation of tomorrow when her new car will arrive home. I can't blame her. I wish her luck and hope she has as good a time as I had in that car. The excitement of a new Camaro is something we never outgrow.