Compact: (n) something that is a small and conveniently shaped
“I had no business…”
I can recite a litany of mistakes I’ve made, all of which could begin with that phrase: “I had no business.”
In other words, if I sat and thought about it for five minutes, some conscious part of me would have raised a loud objection, or even screamed at me to avoid such a foolish path.
One of these occasions in my life–when “I had no business”–was when I bought a Ford Fiesta Ghia.
It’s what they call “a compact car.”
It is adorable if you happen to be a small person, or I suppose even a normal sized person. Then the car would be applicable.
It is not luxurious. It is cheap. (And there might be some place inside where there’s a windup key, but I was never sure.)
I had no business, as a very, very large man, ever purchasing such a car.
But pridefully, because it was on sale and I could actually afford it, I squeezed myself into it at the dealership. The salesman lit up my ego by saying, “Oh, my goodness! You got in there pretty easily.”
That was all I needed.
Actually I did not get in there easily. It was almost like I had to ship my parts in one at a time, before I could finally allow my caboose to arrive in Penn Station.
The steering wheel was too close. I tried to push the seat further and further back, until one day it just broke. Either they didn’t have replacement seats or I was too embarrassed to admit I broke mine, but I decided to prop up the broken piece with chunks of wood. (For a very brief time, it worked–until the metal started chewing into the wood, making my back seat floor resemble the sawdust from a lumber yard.)
I had no business owning a compact car.
There. I said it.
Now I’ve reached an age when, if I was actually able to get into a compact car–if I could struggle to achieve it–I should do so with my last breath … and call it my coffin.