I have a new girlfriend, and what a wild woman she is. She loves cruising the local highways and byways topless, with loud music such as Janice Joplin’s “Summer Time” blaring over the stereo.

She loves making a spectacle of herself, and me. It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so much fun. Her name is Mercedes, and she is a convertible.

A few months ago, the Admiral allowed that I could fulfill a lifelong dream. She said I could learn to fly. I took a couple of introductory lessons and loved it, but when it came to my health issues, the subsequent paperwork, and the daunting task of learning a new skill, I balked. Maybe this old dog is just not up to learning a new trick. Besides, I already have a skill that I love, and am very good at: driving.

Realizing this, I began to subtly negotiate. You have to do that with the Admiral. A bold frontal assault is quickly repelled and she is on her guard for any other, with the chance of success residing somewhere below nil. One must be patient and subtle, characteristics that are against my nature, but which I had to master if this ploy were to have a chance of success.

I began to drop little thought bombs months ago, that given what I said about flying, maybe something else fun would be more practical. I was not sure how the words “fun” and “practical” being used in the same sentence would go over, since the two, to the Admiral, are often mutually exclusive, so I was careful in my subtly bombs. I reasoned that a car, a fun one, even one that could be called a toy, would be a reasonable substitute for flying lessons.

“We already have enough cars,” was her reply.

Although I am not sure there is such a thing as enough cars, I stayed on point with. “True, but they say the best way to learn to fly is in your own plane.”

I could see the flash as the math/money wheels began to turn in her brain behind her glowing eyes. It was a critical moment, an all or nothing gambit on my part, but if you are not going to flirt with life on the edge, don’t live at all. I waited…holding my breath.

The next words were a question. “What kind of a car are you thinking about?”

Wham! Score one for the boy team! I told her.

“A convertible? Are you serious?”

Her practical brain had taken over again, but I was ready with, “What good is having a toy car if you can’t play with it?”

“Okay, but will you please make it a four-seater so we can all enjoy your ‘toy’?” The word “toy” was delivered with such sarcasm, you could smell it, but I didn’t care. I had won my point.

Even I, the king of impractical, will admit that a convertible is not the best choice in an automobile. They are more work, noisier, hotter, and many would argue, that they are less safe. I agree, but they are also a lot more fun.

I have not had a convertible since college, and I have missed them. I love the wind in my hair, even at highway speeds, and the openness and panorama that a convertible affords you. Of course, if you can see all around, people can see more of you. That is kind of the point of a convertible. I have never had anyone ride with me in a convertible who has not asked, “Can we put the top down?” Everyone is a closet “convertible-lest”. They can’t wait to be exposed.

If you see me cruising with the top up, you can be assured it is because of impending, or actual inclement weather. The rest of the time, I will be the one going topless!

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted, at: www.starchasers.us, or david@starchasers.us