Jaguars, Cadillacs and Mustangs - Someday I'll Own All Three Hot Wheels

When you're 10 years old, there's a kind of quiet confidence that goes along with circling your dream car in your dad's well-used copy of Auto Trader. If your parents allowed you to read such "fantasy" magazines.

I had all the big names circled in blue crayon (which is the only crayon my brother wouldn't eat cuz it tasted 'yucky'). Jaguar, Cadillac, Mustang. The trifecta of things I knew I wanted, even if I didn't appreciate their true value.

It didn't matter at all that I wasn't old enough to drive, or that I couldn't afford a piece of Bazooka Joe without an advance in my allowance. I was already dreaming about what my future garage would look like in all its awesomeness.

I had it all figured out. A sleek black Jaguar for mysterious evenings, which at 10 years old included going somewhere with a girl, and possible international espionage. Or, just going to the store for the good candy, you know, the stuff they only brought out at night for the rich kids.

I would also have a white Cadillac for days cruising the boulevard like a low-key movie mogul, even if I didn't know what low-key meant, or that mogul wasn't the name of that kid from the Jungle Book.

To top it all off, a cherry red Mustang convertible. For weekends speeding through the countryside trying to outrun Dad's jokes and my bad decisions - which, by 10, I'd already made a surprising amount of.

I'll never streak down Main St with fists in the air singing Eye of the Tiger again. Unless someone dares me.

I imagined being the person in my family with the coolest cars.

That was the plan. It still is. Sort of.

But here's how it's going:

The Jaguar Phase - Sleek, Stylish, and Delusional

Jaguars are youthful arrogance with a leather interior. Being in your 20's and thinking the world owes you something impractical yet stylish is called "Jag Energy." 

These cars whisper to you in a British accent and smell like the cologne from the villain trying to kill James Bond. I sat in one at a dealership. One time. I knew I couldn't afford it - I went for the free espresso and to see what it felt like to live your life chauffeur optional.

The Jaguar is that car you pull up to the valet in, toss him or her your keys, and say something dramatic, like "Keep it close," or "Mind the paint," or "Hey, Dave."

It's not really a transportation method. It's sociopathy on wheels. And I loved it.

I was convinced that I'd drive one someday, park it sideways in a space that was already too small, and laugh at the parking ticket like it was a love note from the city.

Reality check: I now drive a reliable, silver blob whose brakes squeal when they're wet and still starts with an actual key.

The Cadillac Chapter - Still Desperately Stylin' ... or Tryin'

When you start valuing cupholders over cornering, go with a Caddy. These are still beautiful machines, but they don't say 'wanton abandon with a dash of youth.' 

They just exude the kind of class and comfort that says "I've seen some things, don't care to recall others, and I want to pretend I'm driving a yacht down the highway."

The Cadillac phase moves in just about the time your kids move out. You start paying attention to things like suspension and browse car reviews that mention lumbar support and cubic feet of storage space. 

It's a hearse for your youth, but a fancy one.

You don't use your car to show off anymore.  You use it because you want to sit motionless in traffic without losing circulation. Climate control is a bigger dream than road trips.

You still want that all leather interior, but now it's because it wipes clean when the future grandkids spill juice or your Taco Bell failed to contain itself.

And yet, there's still a quiet kind of swagger to a Cadillac. It's kind of like saying, "I don't have to worry about what anyone thinks of me, because I've got 12 cupholders, storage for a months worth of luggage, and a seat that warms my bum."

The Mustang Fantasy - Midlife Resurgence of Youth ... Not!

Right around the time the doctor starts raising an eyebrow about your cholesterol levels and wants to examine your prostate when you present with pink-eye; that's also about the time the irrational and ill-timed desire to own a Mustang comes along.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is a statement, not a vehicle. It screams "I know I can't climb Mount Everest, but I'm gonna rev this engine like I can drive up the north face."

Mustangs don't care about your mortgage payments, bad knees, or where in the world are you going to put the grandkids car seats. They care about acceleration and Bluetooth connectivity to your Bee Gees playlist.

Buying a Mustang in your fifties is a treat for your inner teenager, and letting your wife know only after the papers are signed. Although, that being said, my wife would cheer, cry a tear of joy, and declare road trip weekends for a year if I were to come home with one.

We'd be in that sucker, top down. Wind rushing through her hair and trying to blow off what little I have left. We'd be oh, so young again. Until we stopped and had to unfold ourselves out of the bucket seats.

The Reality - Driveway of Practicality

Here's what I actually drive: A dependable SUV that struggles to go uphill if the cruise control is on and has the satellite radio permanently affixed to the 80's station. It has occasionally smelled like hand sanitizer and forgotten fast food.

It wouldn't surprise me if we found a child's sock under the back seat that no child would ever claim. The glove compartment has mysteriously vanished things I'm not 100% sure we ever had.

It's not fast or sleek, and pictures of it won't be found on any hot rod calendars or posters.

But it's paid off. And in this economy that feels like winning the Daytona 500 in a wheelchair.

The Dream - And the Hot Wheels

Will I ever own all three - simultaneously? Only if I buy the miniature Hot Wheels versions.

I might have to accept that my three-car garage is doomed forever to be downsized to a responsible family vehicle, a bicycle with flat tires, and whatever the heck that cockroach was riding the other day that made it move so fast.

That's fine. Perfect, in fact. Sometimes, it's about chasing the dream, not owning it. Maybe it's enough to picture it ... a fantasy in my head where traffic is clear and my wife and I are young again, forever stuck in first gear.

I still like the idea of those fast, sleek cars. Once in a while I still tell myself "Maybe one day," even if that day looks like retirement and comes with a seniors discount.

Until then, I'll keep all three in view. In pictures. As Hot Wheels on my desk. In my mind, and in my heart, my wife will always join me.

The Jaguar for who we wanted to be.

The Cadillac for who we've become.

The Mustang for who we might still be - on weekends, with the top down, buns warm, hearts warmer, singing 80's tunes off-key and still loving life.