Before I turned 16, my parents bought at 1993 Ford mustang, white. Shortly thereafter, my brother got a Dodge Avenger, black. The ’93 was bought for me and at the time, my brother made a joke that our cars were represenative of our personalities. He was the bad kid, I was the good kid. He was in his early twenties at the time.
My birthday came and went. I never drove the ’93. Instead, my dad found my 2002 Mustang. It’s gray. Don’t ask me why he was willing to do that, sometimes it still wonder myself. Anyway, six months later I met my husband. Fast forward eight years.
I’m still driving the gray Mustang, affectionately dubbed Frankenstang after a wreck last year. My husband says I’ve changed since we first met. I’m no longer the mild mannered, good girl he first met, that I was when that white Mustang was brought home. I’m living somewhere in the gray these days.
And today Frankenstang legally becomes mine. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.