Muscle Cars Make Great Birth Control

It occurred to me the other day that despite my wonderful marriage to a responsible, committed husband (who has been pre-beaten and molded by a military academy, for my convenience), I might be in imminent danger of losing him to a "girlfriend" on the side. And not some bar skank with a grown-out perm and numerous STDs that I could easily take in a fight with my Jersey heels and some large friends. Oh no...this one poses a real threat. She lives in my house, for Chrissakes. And I hate to admit it...but she's a pretty piece of you-know-what.

I speak, of course, of the 1971 Dodge Dart that's lying in the garage in pieces, like an autopsy. This is the second of what will no doubt be many cars into which my husband will pour his efforts. He's one of those muscle car junkies whose idea of heaven is a big stinky garage and a project car. Call me neurotic, but somehow I find it hard to muster excitement over the rusted metal parts and flat tires that take up the garage. Both sides. Every. Square. Inch. Of my parking spot. Note below (despite how pretty and shiny the engine looks) the complete lack of space to walk anywhere:

Not only does this whole project force me to cross the street in front of our house with two small kids to get to the visitor lot that holds my car, but it steals my husband away for hours at a time. He returns eventually, glowing with excitement and reeking of whatever it was he had been playing around with. The handyman's version of lipstick on the collar. And then there's me, watching House Hunters by myself with a glass of Pinot (and by the way, this is no fun whatsoever if there's nobody there to commiserate on how irritating it is that the women always make boneheaded complaints about paint color. How hard is it to pick up an effing roller? Seriously).

It's right around then that my personal Mope-a-palooza begins. I'm not a jealous person by any means, and I abhor needless drama in our house, but this personal hobby has started to morph and take on a life of its own, sucking time (and more importantly, money) out of our little "nest." My mother-in-law tells me similar stories about my husband's father and his golf addiction (insert witty comment here about "apples" and "falling from trees"). Thankfully I am able to glean from her many years of experience, and she is tremendously helpful despite the fact that I am complaining about her son.

Without even picking up my old college psych textbooks, I can tell you that if honesty prevailed, I would admit that a lot of this stems from the fact that right now I can't think of any passion that makes me twinkle the way he does when he works on his cars. Or at least not within the constraints we have to work with. Anybody with kids and a budget can tell you that. Given buckets of money and an au pair, I would be in a cooking class in Tuscany right now. But I'm NOT. I'm HERE, writing because my kids are both sleeping and this is free.

All concerns about money aside, it is kind of endearing that the car relaxes him to the point where his stress level goes way down and his eye stops twitching the way it does after he gets home from work. And despite the fact that I have no idea how the car works and I have to put on my "Stepford Smile" and nod and blink my way through his re-enactment of what he's just made, the car is starting to come together and look, well, kind of good. I suppose being widowed by a hobby is the price to be paid for being married to someone who takes pride in everything they do. Bummer for me, but livable regardless. Unlike the bar skank, this habit won't go down with a right hook and a drink to the face, so I may as well buck up and smile.