I’ve got a serious “old iron” addiction. If you’re not familiar with the term, it generally relates to the fascination with, and the stupid purchases of, old cars. My drugs of choice are the ’50s and ’60s (some of you might have seen my old, brightly colored, sometimes-running Studebaker truck in years past).
My most recent relapse involves a 1961 Ford Falcon “Fordor” sedan. This model is not a particularly valuable car, even when compared to other Falcons. But as usual, heart wins out over head, and I’m now the proud owner of a car whose biggest claim to fame is sharing the limelight with Snoopy and friends, in the first commercial to feature the “Peanuts” cartoon characters.
My baby was meticulously maintained by, literally, a little old lady, not from Pasadena, but right here in Phoenix. In the late ’90s, she donated it to her church, which sold it to the guy who sold it to me. He restored it and babied it for 20 years.
So here I am, two years older than my new old car, getting ready to face another year and (oh crap!) another decade. An honest self-assessment makes me wish I took care of myself like that old lady cared for her car. Lines become creases, weird moles appear, yada, yada. “I pledge to eat smarter this year!” No, wait, that was last year. The road to hell is paved with ice cream.
Here’s the deal: Let’s say we just make a concerted effort to take a little better care of ourselves next year/decade. From the food we eat, to the media we consume, to the way we treat ourselves and others. Oh yeah, and exercise. I’ve owned plenty of cars, but other than a spare part or two [See “The Hip Thing to Do,” In&Out, Dec. 12, 2019] we can’t get a trade-in on ourselves.