Well, tonight I picked up my little financial nemesis, my 1977 Triumph Spitfire 1500, from the repair place. This car was a project of sorts for Matthew and I, and well, I cannot carry on with the same intensity and skill without him. So, it needed major work and off to the mechanic it went.
Five weeks ago.
Here it is, with me for scale. Yes, yes, it's dark, I shoulda used the flash.
And here it is with the flash on...Then I picked up the Triumph, with the wind in my hair and big pickups crawling up my ass (!), I went for a 30 minute jaunt around Kingwood, always the smallest thing out there since I did not see a Miata. I just relaxed so much. I got home, cleaned up enough to satisfy my need for a clean house to show while I am gone, but not enough for my OCD (oh well...), finished more work, and decided to 1. make this entry, and 2. go to bed and read, and 3. get up early and finish it all later. A 10 hour work day plus another couple cleaning, and that's enough. Fuck it.
That's what I love about that little car: it reminds me of Matthew and puts my mind straight again, puts so much in perspective. Like that I will get to spend a few nice days away with SHG. Like I that am generally healthy. Like that I have good friends. Like that I have a job I like. Like that I have awesome pets.
It may be a bit loud, somewhat cantankerous; the speedometer is for decoration; it pulls hard right when you whale on the brakes; fourth gear is not quite where it should be, though it is in there somewhere; but I love it anyway.
It may not be where it "should" be, but it's in there somewhere.
