A few years ago, when my car needed a new engine, the only loaner available in the one-horse town I was living in was a Nissan Frontier. Stepping up into the driver’s seat of a pickup truck for the first time was mystifying. I felt like an imposter. What business did a 120-lb city girl have revving up this shiny blue beast in the middle of the New England countryside?
At the same time, it felt oddly fitting that something so powerful should come to my rescue at a time when I most needed a hero. My father had just died, and so many other aspects of my life seemed to be facing their demise.
The truck’s strong, voluptuous curves were the perfect armor for my vulnerable state; a grown-up version of the Wonder Woman underoos I’d worn as a little girl. Day after day, I’d coast along backroads with the windows down, singing or talking to myself, the sweet boom of my voice in harmony with the engine’s masculine roar.
Once again, I was the Amazonian goddess spinning around on her living room rug. I was unstoppable, undefeatable. Beautiful and brave.