One of our cars is vintage. At this particular moment in Odhner vehicular history, Frodo sits parked in the corner of the driveway, because there are three others to choose from that are less, shall we say, bedraggled. But for eleven years he ferried one or more of us around town, and even occasionally to Chicago when our daughter lived there. 

Last winter our other daughter had one of the nicer cars with her at Yale, and so it was that driving Frodo was a regular occurrence. One day I had had enough. We deserved a car without ripped seats and broken heat vents. I started looking for a replacement. Well, looking would be an active word. More like waited for it to show up.  

A friend mentioned that they were selling their van, and I clamped on to the idea. Mind you it was only slightly younger than ours and also worn around the edges, which is why they were selling it. But It was an unfamiliar kind of ragged, and I wanted it. I told John the idea, and in my speech burst into tears about poverty as a child, and always wearing hand me downs. He was confused by my behavior, and tried to calmly suggest that we think about it, do a little research, and talk more before we jumped. I took that as confirmation that he didn't care. This was of course inconsistent with the reality that it was most often him who drove Frodo, leaving me the van.

"I've been thinking about it all day!" I argued. Our cars typically last for a decade, so taking more than twenty four hours to choose one falls in the range of prudent. 

In the end we did not buy the car, and now that our daughter has graduated and chosen to rely on public transportation in Boston, Frodo has retired. I look back on the strength of my impulsivity, and am as perplexed as John. It felt justified at the time, but now it seems like less of a solution and more like backfire. 

One time a friend told me about the impulsivity that grabbed her a few years ago. She was drawn to another man, even though her husband was as faithful as he was when they first married, if a bit more gray. She felt an almost irresistible urge to be near the other man, caring how she looked, wanting to impress him. Her dedication to her children waned in the blast of self interest, and she quite nearly threw away a twenty year marriage. 

"The whole infatuation lasted a couple of months, but when I was in it it felt like forever." She sighed. Ninety days compared to a lifetime seems rather paltry. 

"I didn't go looking for it," she said emphatically. The thing about infidelity is, it will find you.

Through a series of miracles, she stayed. Her family did not crash. Even as she described it to me she was incredulous at the possibility that she would choose a marginally younger man whose history included several train wrecks. 

I hugged her, and we both cried at the mercy of it all.