Someone called me a badass yesterday. It was meant as a complement. It also surprised me because I never considered myself a badass, and certainly not when I was growing up. I felt more like a socially awkward, tongue-tied girl. So, how did I achieve this new moniker? Was it a dormant trait that came alive when conditions were right?
I needed to figure this out, so I searched for the origins of my badassness. It was in a box of old photos. Shuffling through them and looking for clues, I found my baby pictures, always showing me with a shy smile. My early adolescent photos had me looking morose and bored. Then I came upon one taken when I was a junior in high school, wearing my band uniform. I looked pissed, and my hands were balled into fists like I was ready to grab the camera from the photographer (probably my mother) and smash it. But it wasn’t my band uniform that portrayed me as a fledgling badass. It was what I was standing next to—my red Mustang. Upon closer inspection, I saw a cocky grin on my face. Sort of like what you see in close-ups of Cher’s video of her singing, “If I Could Turn Back Time.” Not that I have a lot in common with Cher. I mean, really. She has lovely dark hair and a tattoo on her butt. I have neither.
Anyway, back to the Mustang. I loved that car, but I guess I took it for granted. I’d learned to drive in an old 1950s Plymouth, which handled like an army tank. So, driving the Mustang was a cinch. It was sleek. And with a stick shift. Driving was effortless. I zipped around West like a demon. The occasional trip to the Lake Air Mall in Waco was a certified excursion. One old man who lived in town told my dad that all I did was drive around in the Mustang. I’m not sure what his point was, but Dad had the good sense to ignore him.
Years later, I bought a Honda Accord with automatic transmission, power steering, and anti-lock brakes. I thought I’d died and gone to automobile heaven. Compared to the old Mustang, I could drive that Honda with one finger, blindfolded. I’d now reached a mature level of badassness, or so I thought.
A few months ago, my brother-in-law bought a classic red Mustang. Lo and behold, it was identical to the one I had in high school. He restored it: the paint job glimmered, and the chrome twinkled. I fantasized that he’d bought it for me on my birthday. (Wrong!) But he did let me drive it, and that’s when I realized that somewhere along the way, I’d gone from bad to soft. I was no longer that high school girl who zipped around town in a sports car. All my car upgrades since that Mustang had dulled my driving skills. When I got behind the wheel of my brother-in-law’s car, I was shocked: no power steering, no anti-lock brakes. (I had no problem with standard transmission. It’s kind of like knowing how to ride a bicycle—the skill is always there.) But I felt like I was driving a cast-iron skillet with wheels. We took the car out on the highway. I was terrified. It was too damned hard to navigate. I could barely turn the steering wheel with both hands, much less one finger. I’m in reasonably good shape but still needed full upper body strength to maneuver the thing. I prayed I wouldn’t meet a red light because braking seemed to take minutes, not seconds. I was afraid I’d plow into a car in front of me. I tried to look cool sitting next to my brother-in-law (who has never once doubted his coolness).
The next time I visited, he asked me if I wanted to drive it again, and I said no. What a coward I’d become! With her skimpy outfit and butt tattoo, Cher would have jumped behind the wheel.
Next time I’m there, I will drive that Mustang again. Hell, I might even steal it and keep going all the way to the Pacific Northwest.
Thanks to the person who called me a badass yesterday. I really needed that. And thanks to Cher, the baddest of all badasses, for having the courage to wear a few strips of clothing, high-heeled boots, and dance around a battleship with a bunch of guys who are young enough to be her grandsons. I feel so much better now. I think I’ll go shopping.