I Drive an Old Man Car. No, Really.

Here's the thing: I love my new ride. It's a 2010 Chevy Malibu (which I understand isn't new - I can do simple math, you know - but it's new to me. So quit getting stuck on semantics and keep reading.) It's a quiet, smooth ride with great sound - much to the dismay of anyone around me, I'm sure. Everything works, the engine light isn't constantly on, the calipers aren't seizing on the rear brakes and causing fires, there are no scary sounds every time I turn right, it's not rusting out from under me... Basically the stuff that dreams are made of.

There's only one, uh, problem. Well, it's not really a problem. It's more like an observation: I have observed that I now drive an old man's car. True story.

You know how you get some new wheels, and you slap your gold grill in your mouth and you wear your hat down low and you cruise around with the phat beats pumping, and you begin noticing everyone else who drives the same car as you?

Well, I've been noticing, and every single one of them so far is male and pushing 85. I wish I was exaggerating.

I went to visit family three hours away over the weekend. While in their town I noticed the same thing: Old man + car = Malibu. Every single time.

So here's the problem observation my ego was struggling with originally: I am thirty-five and female. Did I pick the wrong car? I have nothing against older gentlemen, of course. They generally have great taste in vehicles. It's just that I was busily feeling all fly in my tricked out ride and now I find out that I'm effectively driving the poor man's Cadillac with plenty of room for a cane and oxygen tank and a set of fly bridge-playing bitches in the back seat (and maybe a walker or two - it has great trunk space.) Am I treading on someone's well-established turf? Am I going to get an angry mob of post-midlife men beating down my door with torches and stories about how, back in their day, suspenders were mandatory to get behind the wheel of a midsize Chevrolet?

Well, you know what? Too bad. I have decided that I'm breaking the mould, shattering the stereotype, taking this car back to for masses! No longer will the Malibu be reserved for octogenarians alone. This is a free society, and one where youngins should be able to drive pimp rides without shame, fear or humiliation. I am proud to get behind that wheel and rock the shit out of my new car.

Rocking the shit out of my car. Safely. With a seat belt.

(Her name, by the way, is Tiara Cristal. I think that's a damn fine stripper name, and it's sexy like she is. Makes me think of tassels and glass pumps.)

Still laughing at me? Well, stop. I drive a hybrid and sometimes there's no engine noise so I can totally hear you and it makes me sad. But check out the picture I took about 40 minutes after filling my tank on the way home on Sunday:

(That's 508 miles, Americans.)

So you can snicker or wave your walking sticks my way, but this spring chicken (okay, maybe a summer chicken at this point) is too busy bringing sexy back - and not filling her gas tank - to notice.

Bringing sexy back. Slowly. Right after my nap.

Maven, out.