The Other Love of My Husband’s Life and Why I’m Okay With It (Even when I’m Not)

“Isn’t she something?”

My husband, Sandy, gazes adoringly at the vision standing at the curb. She’s beautiful with curves in all the right places, and I can tell just from looking at her she’s fast. She’s a 1970’s Mercedes Pagoda convertible, his dream car, on loan for the weekend.

He’s a man in love. I have mixed feelings as I climb in. I can appreciate “her” classic lines and mint condition, the “sexy” purr of her engine. She’s eye-candy to classic-car buffs like Sandy, who dreams of owning this model of car someday and bemoans the prices for such vehicles fetched at auctions that rise with each passing year.

I’m glad it’s this kind of model and not the other kind he lusts after.

That said, I am not a car geek, classic or otherwise. Nor am I a fan of convertibles. I’m fine with whatever gets me around, and with my history of skin cancers, I don’t relish riding in a vehicle that’s basically a sunbed on wheels with the top down. Despite the hat I always wear and the UV protection I slather on before going for a ride in said vehicle, I’m convinced I’ve burned new holes in my own personal ozone by the time I arrive at my destination, with my hair looking like a windblown haystack.

The first hint that I’m unlikely to be swayed in my opinion comes when I find myself wedged in the passenger seat with my overnight bag crammed in the footwell, as we take off for our weekend getaway.

Because that’s another thing about sportscars: their trunks have the capacity of a box of Kleenex. We were able to cram one bag into the trunk—Sandy’s because he’s driving—but two? Forget about it. It’s like flying Coach without the extra legroom and no room in the overhead bin for my carryon.

On the three-hour drive to Cape May, NJ, Sandy rhapsodizes about the car.

“Isn’t this fun? Isn’t she HOT?”

“Hot,” I agree, speaking through gritted teeth. With temps outside in the 90’s, it is indeed hot. I’m sweating. I’m at risk of heat stroke and sunburn. I am most definitely not having fun.

But I’m a good wife and I try to be a good sport. Sandy is unfailingly a good sport about my interests that he doesn’t share. He’ll wait patiently in a Container Store while I deliberate over drawer dividers like another woman would over the latest fashions in a clothing store. While his own taste in TV viewing runs toward shows like “Chasing Classic Cars,” he’ll watch the British mystery series on Acorn and Britbox I enjoy.

If and when the day comes when we have a house with a garage and he can buy the classic car of his heart’s desire, I absolutely want him to fulfill that long-held dream.

Would I personally like to own a sportscar convertible that’s a money-suck in terms of maintenance with none of the cool features of newer model vehicles? No way in hell.

But I suck it up for his sake. I’d smile if I could without flying insects catching in my teeth.

We arrive at our destination, where my memory of the ride-from-hell soon fades over the course our fun weekend getaway.

Until the return trip home when I’m rudely reminded of it. Ever the considerate husband, Sandy puts the top up and cranks on the A/C in the convertible for my comfort. Which is when we discover the A/C isn’t working properly—it emits only a tepid trickle of air. The temps inside and out soon have me broiling.

But we’re “having fun,” so what does it matter?

I continue to be a good sport until I feel something warm and wet at my feet. I look down and see the footwell below my seat is flooded. My feet, along with my overnight bag and favorite purse, are sitting in the inch of water—from a leaky hose in the A/C system, we later learn—that covers the floor. Which is when my good humor abandons me.

Sandy feels bad about my ruined purse. Besides which, it wasn’t his fault. So I try not to bitch.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for him owning the Mercedes Pagoda he lusts after someday. But only if we own a second car with a trunk bigger than the glove compartment and low risk of engine failure or my developing skin cancer.

In the meantime, I’m happy with the new purse he bought me to replace the one that was trashed.

P.S. For more about the prince I married (after kissing my share of frogs), see the novel I wrote, Thorns of Truth, the sequel to my NY Times bestseller, Garden of Lies, in which the hero, Eric Sandstrom, was inspired by Sandy. Though, as Sandy likes to say, “I never killed a co-worker.”