Animated imaginary conversations, one of the best pleasures of driving alone, must also be kept in check. A daisy car doesn't look entirely professional, either. When I went to interview a cultural leader at her home, I had to drive through a pricey suburb laden with gracious old homes of stone and clapboard. The further I drove into the neighborhood, the lower I sank in my seat. I ended up parking the silly chariot around the corner on a sidestreet.
Some people spend their lives feeling like they're in a daisy car.
They arrive at adulthood with bodies that don't fit right, that embarrass or disappoint them. They wish they could park around the corner on a sidestreet and step out free, radiant in a form that better expressed the real person within. Half the conversations in a girls' dorm involve fretting about a nose that's too big or a bust that's too small. Women fret about thickening figures, men about thinning hair. One of my college professors would part his just above one ear and pull a sheaf across the top of his pate.