Yesterday, I woke up at dawn and hopped in my dad’s old black truck to head to Charlotte, our refurbished check-out counter strapped in the bed and loads of inventory in tow.
I made one stop in a small town outside of the city for gas and a snack. Not going to lie, I got a few looks when I jumped down from the driver’s side in my whitewashed hipster jeans and a one-shoulder top.
My dad called to check on me last night as I was making the trek back eastward. He asked how it felt to drive that big ol’ truck…and truth be told, I kind of liked it! He admitted that he’d laughed a few times during the day at the thought of me behind its wheel.
After I hung up, I couldn’t help but think of the last time I sat in the driver’s seat of a pick up truck. I was 13 years old and the highlight of my weekend was when my daddy would drive me to the high school parking lot near my house and let me take his beat up truck for a spin. He’d repeat “slow her down a little bit” (I still don’t) and “can you see out of your mirrors?” (hell, I couldn’t even see over the wheel).
Those were the days.