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By Leslie Freidberger

I drive a sensible car, a Honda, which is perfect for my sensible life. But while at a stoplight, a car slammed into my Honda and knocked the sensible right out of me.

The other driver’s insurance would pay for all the repairs, but I was angry over the huge inconvenience of finding a body shop and getting a rental car.

Wearily, I told the rental car agent, “I’m here to rent a car. Here is the insurance claim number.”

“Welcome, it looks like you have an allotment of $50 a day for 15 days.” The agent said in a very cheery tone.

“Fine. Whatever car you have is fine. It’s all fine,” I replied, drearily.

“Let’s see, we have a Chevy SUV, a 4-door sedan and a Mustang convertible.”

“Back up! What did you say?” I perked up.

“Yes, a 2021 Mustang convertible. Just know that no one under 25 is technically allowed to drive it.”

That was going to be a problem. I thought for a second about how upset my seventeen-year-old son, Sam, will be before asking, “Where do I sign?”

I barely made it into the driveway, “MOM! You rented a Stang? Give me the keys,” Sam declared.

“Sorry, you can’t drive it.”

I hadn’t seen him this bitter since I took his Big Wheel away. He campaigned hard to convince me to hand over the keys. I stood strong.

For the next weeks, I drove everywhere with the top down. The wind blowing my hair around was intoxicating.

I told the body shop to take their time.

I played country music loudly. My teenage daughter Lindsay looked over at me in dismay and shouted, “Who are you?”

Suddenly I was the cool mom. I was Walter Mitty. I can’t go back to my sensible life.

But like all good dreams, this one had to come to an end. The Honda repairs were finished. I drove the Stang back to the rental car dealership where I was immediately greeted by the agent. 

“I’m sorry, but our computers are down. We cannot accept any cars until Monday morning. Don’t worry you won’t be charged for the weekend.”

“What?” I backed out before they changed their mind.

I drove to Sam and Lindsay’s high school and walked up to the front office counter. “I’m afraid my kids might have been exposed to COVID and I need to take them out to be tested,” I lied.

“By all means,” the woman answered.

Two minutes later my worried kids appeared.

“Hush, just follow my lead,” I ushered them out and toward the awaiting Mustang. “Hop in,” I instructed.

Sam and Lindsay hopped in over the sides of the car like Starsky and Hutch. I got behind the steering wheel and revved up the engine.

“Did someone say Bueller? Ferris Bueller?” I winked.

I drove up the famed Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Just before we got to Mulholland Drive, I pulled over. “Wanna drive?”

Sam’s eyes popped and he was behind the driver’s seat faster than you can say, “Holy Stang, Batman.” We blasted the Beatles’ Twist and Shout while he cruised across Mulholland Drive like Carroll Shelby. The ride of a lifetime. We drove through Beverly Hills, up Rodeo Drive listening to Pretty Woman. People waved and took our picture. Then down Sunset Boulevard to the Pacific Coast Highway. 

“Ventura Highway in the sunshine,” we sang it loud and proud. 

We drove past Malibu Beach and kept driving. The sun was bright and bounced off the ocean.

“MOM! Where are we going?” Lindsay questioned.

“Kids, where we’re going, we don’t need roads. Doesn’t matter, we’ve got the whole weekend.”

We threw our hands up in the air and sang “Danke schoen, darling, Danke schoen!” 

On Monday morning I rolled back to my sensible life…well, almost. 

— Leslie Freiberger 

Leslie Freiberger lives in Pasadena, California, with her three children: Jack, 25, and twins Lindsay and Sam, 18. Along with writing her essays, Freiberger is currently working on her first novel. She spends her time enjoying her kids and writing her humor blog waffletude.com.