Impulsive

I admit it. I am impulsive. In fact, if I'm brutally honest, my life could be defined by my impulsive nature. Do you see that red 1951 Chevy pickup truck in the picture? Yep. I bought it - on an impulse.

I was taking my usual morning walk, when I saw that truck in a neighbor's driveway. It had a for-sale sign in the window. I always wanted a hotrod old truck - and it was red.

I had to have it. That's how impulsiveness works. One minute, the thing you want more than anything is not even a glimmer of a thought. The next minute, you can't live without it.

The thing is, I would have to convince Paula to "let" me buy it. She was not receptive to the idea. 

"But I really want it," I pleaded. "It's red."

She rejected passionate desire and intense longing as legitimate grounds for purchasing the truck. I think she used the word "rash."

At first, I tried sulking and pouting, but to no avail. I tried to explain how this was like an investment. She insisted it would be more like the boat, or the antique tractor, or the roadster, or the horses I had acquired in the past. Something about a "money pit."

I flirted with the idea of buying it without her approval, but quickly realized the folly of that approach. Then it hit me. I asked my friend, Michael, to come take a look at the "thing I could not live without". He was a car guy. He might be able to provide a little outside encouragement.

We all live in the same neighborhood, so he agreed to come over right away and take a look at it. He seemed to understand my enthusiastic need to possess this red beauty, and gave it his blessing.

"Let's go over to my place and let Paula know that you think it's a good investment." 

His expression revealed some discomfort with getting involved in this part of the transaction. I assured him that the possibility of violence was minimal. 

He told Paula that the truck seemed to be in reasonably good shape and not overpriced. I added a distraction strategy, reminding her that I hadn't bought the golf cart or motorcycle I'd wanted, implying I should be allowed to buy something.

Much to our surprise, Paula finally agreed to let me move forward with the purchase. Perhaps the pouting and sulking had worked after all. I bought the truck 48 hours later.

I was a very happy man, driving around in my cool red truck. I took Paula for a ride. It was all fun and games until we ran out of gas on the way home. The guy who sold it to me warned me that the gas gauge wasn't accurate.

Luckily, I had a 5-gallon can of gas in the truck bed. No problem. I put the gas in the tank and prepared to get back on the road. 

There is this thing in Florida called sugar sand. That's where we pulled off the road - in the sugar sand. When I tried to get back on the road, we sank up to the floorboard in the stuff. It was 96 degrees and humid. 

I'll spare you the details, but we eventually got back home - hot, sweaty, and covered in sand. The mood was a bit tense. A distinct "I told you so" hung in the air. Two weeks later, a wheel bearing blew up or out. I'm not a car guy, so I just know that I had to call a tow truck.  My friend Michael assures me that this sort of thing is just part of the joy in owning an antique custom hot rod. I won't mention what Paula says.