Segue to Segway
My fifth white Lexus lease was ending. For eleven months, I searched for new transportation. Determined to be environmentally responsible, I started with the hybrids. Feeling like I was single-handedly rescuing all Polar Bears and ice, the reality is, seats in green cars trash my back.
I could have put a deposit on a round, cute convertible, and in ten months when it arrived, pay as much over sticker for that $24,000 vehicle as a Bentley.
Instead, I rode up and down, up and down Santa Monica and Wilshire, test driving 22 other automobiles. I rented many of them, all yellow, a day at a time, since car people only let me ride one exit on freeways, and confined my bump research to the single block in the County that’s been paved since FDR.
At the fancy dealerships, there were no cars on any lots, so I was caravanned to satellite garages. Descending three somber, airless levels into the bowels of the earth, salespeople with bad suits and matching flashlights weren’t authorized to drive anything under $85,000 up the ramps to daylight, but suggested I visit their URL’s for color swatches.
Danny, my lawyer and unhusband, suggested a scooter. But look for me ripping six on the 405, saving the planet, on my Segway.
© 2012 Anything With Words
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