They say 'life begins at forty'; well, I can tell you that mine began at thirty.
On the day John sprung his big surprise and gave me to Dean.
Dean's eighteenth birthday.
Hey, I'm like any other girl; need the odd paint job, worry about gravity doing it's evil work (you should see my leather upholstery some mornings; sheesh, looks like someone's tried to stick it back on the cow) and, more than anything, I love being pampered.
And I've certainly never been disappointed since Dean snatched up those keys all those years ago like a starving dog snatches a bone.
I'm a classy lady, so I won't be crude and say he services me regularly, but let's just say that thanks to my boy I'm in fine shape for a woman of my vintage.
He lavishes devoted, loving care on me; changing my oil, inflating my tires, and oiling my springs; (well, let's just say my suspension gets tested sometimes so they really need it).
Jealous? Why would I be jealous?
I'm no more jealous of those simpering, peabrained, wide-assed little floozies than I would be of one of Dean's burgers; they're just satisfying a red-blooded man's natural, uh, requirements.
Every day Dean tells me how beautiful I am, and when he gets down and dirty, washing and waxing my bodywork well ... ah, forget it, a woman needs her secrets.
Yes, forty-five I may be, but if I had a step, it would still have a spring in it.
In return I do my level best to give him and Sammy safety, security, warmth and comfort. It's not much, but I know they appreciate it.
People say it's not miles on the clock that matter, it's what's inside you that's precious.
And looking at what sits inside me, I wholeheartedly agree!