Age is a fun thing. It sneaks up on you.
Friday, April 2, 2021, 7:00 a.m.
“/>If you see Jim in a white Porsche in Dundee, just give him your thumbs up
Who can remember their 16th birthday, 21st birthday, 40th birthday? Then for those of us with a more experienced vintage, there is the 50th and so on. I asked my “God”, with whom I talk every day, if he [my god is a he] will give me good health and life in my eighties. I feel like if I make it to eighty-three or so there will be enough time on this earth. But in my early fifties, I have these crazy cravings. It eats me away. Unfortunately not something altruistic for world peace. No, it’s about buying a sports car! I said age is a fun thing, right?
With a bad fight against Covid-19 that ended some time ago and my first vaccination under my belt, the desire is to develop into a full blown need. Maybe it’s been a week of brain fog, aching limbs, and poor lung capacity. Followed by five weeks of feeling like a zombie. It took me almost six weeks to get back into exercise. And I’m about 25 percent busy, where I was before the coronavirus. That said, I’ve now moved on and completed two light sessions of HIIT and feel back in the game. Maybe this new life is the catalyst that sparked my hunger for a sports car?
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Buying a car has never been easier. I mean, dealerships fall over themselves to get cars out the door. I can collect my car online, fill out some checks, buy it and have it delivered from literally anywhere in the UK. Some companies even deliver it for free! It’s not buying the car that is my problem, it’s choosing the right one. And this dilemma carries over to conversations within the family.
First of all, I don’t want a sports car forever. I only want it for a short period of time. Let’s say a couple of years so I can wash it, polish it, and drive it on fast B-roads. Hopefully the adrenaline, the imagination and the craving for a sports car will be well satisfied by then and it will be a Vauxhall Corsa again for my age. So buying this sports car seems like a choice. Either I buy a used one and hope it lasts two years, or I buy a brand new one with PCP Finance and give it back after two years. Everything is feasible with a sufficiently good credit rating and a chunky deposit. But there is a catch. I’m not just any old sports car – I want a Porsche.
Some of you will be laughing right now, others will shake your head, and others will agree with my choice of sports car. I still have all of my hair. A lot of it, in fact, so please no bald old man who drives Porsche jokes. There are many other sports cars that I could finance right now. Probably cheaper versions that have all of the gadgets, gadgets, and accelerations I could want. But the emotional part of my brain that has neither reason nor rationality screams at me – Porsche! Porsche! Porsche! And many of you will know exactly what that feels like. It may come from the addicting part of my cognitive makeup – my close encounter with neurotransmitters that seek and enjoy pleasure. Mind you, these brain chemicals don’t fully understand or appreciate the cost of the Porsche and the social baggage, stereotypes and utter ridicule I can suffer from showing it off along the boardwalk in Dundee.
The finances don’t add up for a math teacher worth her salt. Essentially, I spend around £ 30,000 over two years and then return my Porsche to the dealership. As long as it’s in good condition, mileage is less than 10,000 miles per year, and I’m ready to resist the fire of sales to buy a new one, I can kiss it goodbye. Along with all that money! But even that glaring headline in my brain – “Dundee man loses £ 30,000 in Porsche escapade on the River Tay” – isn’t enough to dissuade me from my adventure in the Porsche dealer’s land. Closer examination by a sane person would reveal that I may be trapped in an age-related obsession. And there’s no going back – I have to scratch this itch.
Imagine! A beautiful white Porche 911 automatic with 21-inch wheels and looks that make George Clooney look beyond his best. Inside are other functions of Elon Musk’s Space X Mission Control Center. When the engine starts up, my neighbors shake their heads and clap their heads together with words like “Werfer”, “Röhre” and “Bampot”. Then I put it in driving mode and off I go into the potholes, speed camera traps and Porsche hates Audi drivers whose cars are just as fast and who want to show me. Ooft!
Yeah, age is a fun old thing. Why would a fairly sane person with limited resources and a supportive family want to go all out to fulfill a latent age-related desire? I don’t have an answer to that question. I can only admit I spend hours scrolling Autotrader online to narrow down a Porsche that I envision. Every now and then fear grabs me, shakes me and pulls me back to 53 and stupid. But the urge to splash around on a sports car is still there every morning.
I only have one question. If you’re an old guy who drives a white Porsche 911 down the streets of Dundee and thinks he’s a “cool guy” just smile, give him your thumbs up and nod in agreement. This will make my day …