Regrets, like most people, I have a few (not many), but one of the biggest was listening to my dad and not buying the 1964 Chevy Impala I was madly in love with. I’ve owned somewhere between three and five cars and I loved exactly none of them.
I was seventeen when I bought my first automobile. I’d carefully saved up $350 from my after-school job and weekend babysitting gigs and was ready to invest. I pored over want ads and finally found this beautiful car. It was shiny and black, with a beautiful red leather interior. It wasn’t in perfect condition, but damn, was it pretty. My dad and I took it for a test drive and he convinced me that it would guzzle gas and need repairs immediately. Reluctantly, I walked away.
A few days or weeks later, my dad called saying he’d found my car. My ears perked up when he said it was a Mustang. I was certain it’d be one of those awesome James Dean type cars. Er, no. It was a ‘73 Mustang—one of the first years they started making them ugly. To compound its awkward, fug, front-heavy design, it was painted primer gray. Also, I needed to learn to drive stick—something my dad neglected to mention until he pulled into our driveway in it. Did I mention we lived on top of a giant hill? Trial by fire, baby.
The Mustang was hideously ugly, incredibly loud, and such a giant mechanical pain in the ass it only lasted a couple years anyway. Certainly the Impala would’ve run for that long. But it was not to be. I still occasionally go on Ebay and page through the ‘64 Chevy Impalas, but now they’re antiques and cost gazillions.
