I pick cars

When I first started dating Sean, I was surprised by the amount of talk between Sean and his dad about cars. Surprise is probably not strong enough: shocked is more like it. They talked cars all the time. All. The. Time. Foreign, domestic, old, new – nothing was off the table. Even when they tried to convince those riding with them that they were engaged in other conversation, they weren’t: they’d tap on their car windows and nod at each other. This behavior has been passed down to our son, and the three of them can talk all things automotive until they are blue in the face.

Once, I made a joke about how much they talk about cars, and Sean’s dad said, “Well, it’s cars or women. You pick.” Hard to argue with such stellar logic, so for the past 24 years, I’ve picked cars.

At the Detroit Auto Show on Sunday, the Volkswagen display had two, for lack of a better word, dancers, perched up on platforms. They were gyrating to some techno music pumping through the display. They, not surprisingly, drew quite a crowd, and we were among the throng. Amy and I couldn’t take our eyes off them – we kept waiting for them to do something other than flail their arms about. I figured the guys were watching, too. I was wrong:

Those two guys hunched over the Beetle are Sean and Michael. Rebecca's in the driver's seat. The dancers were competing with the new Beetle and CC. The shiny sheet metal won.

Not that the boys were immune to the spectacle. Sean did complain that the dancing clogged up the car display.

I do love my man. Car talk and all.