Dear driver,

To the lady driving the candy-apple red Camaro in front of me this morning. Yes, you blondie.

I get it - you're easily ten years my elder and likely a recent Californian transplant. You're trying maintain your fading youth and So-Cal good looks while simultaneously experiencing culture shock and a midlife crisis. These women in North Idaho - they're not like you. They know how to shoot guns. They don't wear Prada. They drive Jeeps. They drink cheap beer. Their husbands have beards. Their husbands have tattoos of beards under their beards. It's OK to be different, but you don't have to buy flashy cars to exert your dominance.

Of course if you feel younger and more attractive from the drivers seat of a hot car, no one would blame you for spending $25 grand to do so while the rest of the nation is in the middle of an economic depression. What's a few thousand dollars worth if it can't help you find happiness?

Please don't misread my reason for writing you. I am not opposed to people wealthier than me driving cars more luxurious than mine. If you can afford to drive a car that costs nearly as much as the median income of your new home town - go for it. I won't begrudge you. I'm not the type that gets jealous of the vehicles driven by other people. Since you drive neither a Dartz Prombron nor a Mini Cooper (the two cars I would most want to see parked in my driveway) there is no cause for envy.

Besides, I am not much of a "car guy." Unlike many of my peers, my fondness for Hot Wheels did not translate into a passion for the life-sized counterparts when I reached adulthood. As a man that isn't that excited about cars I don't drool every time a hotrod passes me. The only reason I know your car is a Camaro is that a freshly reanimated caveman brought to life through cloned DNA from dead mosquitoes discovered in petrified tree sap would recognize your car as a Camaro.

In fact, my problem isn't that you passed me but rather that I had to pass you. As you sat at the red light with your blinker on waiting for non-existent traffic to pass, you failed to take your free right. Once the light turned green and we turned onto Highway 95, you slowly accelerated to a rip-roaring speed of 10 miles an hour under the posted speed limit. I had to go around you. If you are not a soccer-mom in a mini van, there's no reason for you to drive like one (no offense intended to actual soccer-moms in a mini vans who might read this).

Don't you realize what you're driving? It is a modern muscle car. It is a powerful machine. It is designed to go fast. As Chevy advertises, it is head-turning style without the sacrifice of performance. Unfortunately, the only heads you're turning are of drivers that are passing you as you piddle along in the slow lane. It just boggles my mind how you could sit behind the wheel of such a beast, to have the command of pure fury at your fingertips, and pilot that machine like you're afraid a stray leaf in the road might irreparably damage that devilish paint job.

If you are so afraid of scratching up that beautiful sports car, why don't you drive a car that wouldn't wound you if it was struck by an errant shopping cart? Why do you insist on owning a car that keeps in constant fear and paranoia?

Let's make a deal. We can trade. My car is only worth a couple thousand dollars, I am sure you would not be worried if it incurred a bump or ding. You can have my Ford Explorer and drive it like it was meant to be driven. And I would gladly take that Camaro off your hands.



p.s. - I completely understand if you decline my offer.

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