Coming of age (1)
Okay, I’ll admit it. Sitting behind the wheel of my first car before it was towed off to the junkyard, I cried. You can tell me a car is only so much glass and steel, wholesale replica designer handbags, but I’ll never apologize for losing my cool that day. A young man’s first car is less a means of transportation than a monument to his discovery of youthful freedom. At least mine was.
It had all started two years earlier: soon after my 16th birthday, my parents retired the old red family car and passed it on to me. Before long, that car and I had become the best of friends. We gave rides to just about anyone who asked, anytime, anywhere, wholesale designer handbags and had all sorts of adventures.
Some of those adventures were pretty hair-raising. One famous afternoon after school, I piled ten friends into the car, including Eric, who opted to ride in the trunk rather than be left behind. We were just driving around, feeling good, wholesale coach handbags and talking about everything and nothing. And although I had been going only about 20 miles an hour, the collision with a school bus full of seven-years-olds crumpled the front of my car. My first thought was of Eric in the trunk. I rushed over and opened it to find him lying there motionless. I gasped. He opened his eyes and laughed: “you are the worst driver on the planet.”
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