When It Is Time To Let A Woman Go

Inevitably there comes a time when every relationship changes, mutates, grows, matures or ends. We all realize this, the bright among us accepts it. "Twas the case of a woman born in the sixties who I met and loved in the nineties when she became mine. Beautiful, sexy, in command, airy, wonderful, yearning to be free, bright, loud, purring, open, attracted attention wherever we went and usually a crwd when I was not there and approaching I would always have a sense of pride with the slightest bit of jealousy. You are supposed to be MY girl, not the hangers on. They would get jealous too. I turned her on when they desperately wanted to. I never looked back.

I let her go last week. Finally. Irrevocably. It hurt but it was the right thing to do. Should have done it before my marriage but she is gone now.

After one ad on Craigslist I found he perfect buyer for my 1969 Ford Mustang Convertible. Candy Apple Red. Black top. 302 engine. Beauty, power, looks, sex appeal.


I found her in 1993. I owned my own company then and was looking for a drop top just to take to the shore for when I stayed at Kelly's house in Avalon. The owner and I hooked up in Bryn Mawr by accident and it was love at first sight. I had to have her. We came to surprisingly good terms in the garage and the next day I brought the cash and my mother's license plate and brought her home. It was winter, but I did not care. She had a heater. I tok her to church the next Sunday. It had snowed big time on Friday. There I was at St. Luke's my elderly mother and I getting out of a classic red Mustang convertible at church on snow. MY mother! Father Murphy took an extra hit on his cigar.

It was nice having two cars. On nice days I would bring the 'Stang to work. Ellen in the office would use it to get lunch or coffee because it was made for a blonde. Going to the shore was a great time. On the Atlantic City Expressway she would hold 70 all the way to Avalon. You could feel her going, "gimme more, gimme more." Now I always put the lead additive in the tank with each fill up. One time I deliberately went to Chestnut Hill, the rich section of Philly, to the Sunoco station where they sold LEADED gas. Ten years ago it was $5.00 a gallon but I filled her up just to clean her out. What a ride to the shore! She was like an addict with a full tank of drugs. The leaded gas just powering the babe. I could feel her going, "lemme loose, lemme loose" and I did. 70 was walking, we breezed past 80 and that dumb Corvette near Egg Harbor. 90 was just a memory. At 100 miles per hour she still wanted m0re but I chickened out. She wasn't really shaking, but she was twenty five years old then. Which is like 95 in human years. 25 and going 100 mph. The fascination with these classic cars isn't only the beauty and mystique but the simplicity. No computers, no catalytic converters, no shoulder belts, no air bags. Just a car. A car measured in cubic inches, not the metric system. A car with that sexy growl when you revved up the engine. The purr when you pulled in traffic. The power when you had to pass or just wanted to flex her muscles. You can't get that today. You do not know what you are missing.

One time Cindy, yes Cindy herseldf was in the back seat. Cindy's husband Larry in the front and as we backed out of the driveway Mom was on the porch in her favorite chair. We all waved and Cindy actually smiled! Really! Ask her husband. She was that kind of car.

As time marched on things changed. Situations became more complex, more costly and she sat in the driveway. I was always meaning to get back to her, to fix her up again, to ride her again. But never did. Life got in the way. Desire finding other pursuits. I knew something had to be done. The closest I came to fixing her up was in 2005. The girl I dated before my Beloved was significantly younger than me and she wanted a new Mustang so I went with her. The new ones have a retro look and feel and I felt a twinge. The young salesman (jerk) saw me lookng at the Mustang with the biggest engine and said that only those who know cars can really drive it. It is nothing like that suburban Jeep I came in with. Oh and would you be trading the Jeep in for your daughters purchase? I smiled. I could have ripped his throat out for the two sins he committed but allowed him life. I just said I wanted to take the big one out for a drive. He pulled it out after cautioning me that it is more car than I have ever driven and asked if I knew a stick shift. The other salesmen rolled their eyes at this young upstart nurtured on four cylinder Jap jobs. We buckled up I revved it up and cautioned him to hang on. He actually screamed when I hit the gas, popped the clutch and made a hard right out of the lot barely looking. You know those new "Stangs have impressive get up as you ram the gears through the gate and lay rubber down The Fairway in Jenkintown. I swear when I brought the car back the young boy with the pale face was barely breathing. Served him right. I bought spark plugs, oil,wires, but the project was too daunting for me. After all, now I was planning marriage. No time for the other woman when the Beloved was coming into the house to make it a home.

I realized that it was time for someone else. She is almost 40. Over sixty replies to the ad. The third man to visit was the one. He cared about her, will learn to love her, he respects her. It will be a father/son project just as I advertised. He accepted the price. We shook hands on it both being honorable men.


When the truck came to take her away I felt a little bad but mostly confident she found the right home, the right men to take care of her.

But boy did I feel for her as she pulled out of the driveway one last time.