By Kelly Keene

My friend Diba told me that she didn’t believe in saying “I love you,” but she did believe that a man’s footwear was a good judge of character. She would never date a guy in sandals and jeans. At the time, we were in 9th grade, and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could a fourteen year old already doubt Love? And weren’t we not supposed to be shallow and judgemental yet? I mean come on, it was only 2006!

Now that I’ve entered my thirties, I realized I could’ve learned a lot from Diba. Saying, “I love you” is pretty complicated, and while I haven’t given up on it completely, I’d like to go back in time, and at least hear her out. 

The value she placed on footwear makes more sense to me now. Diba was a sneakerhead, and the people she trusted and respected were too. We didn’t keep in touch, and it’s probably because my three options for footwear were moldy ugg boots, one dollar Old Navy flip flops, and a scuffed up pair of knock-off Ross converse. But for Diba, shoes were something she valued. They had the potential to highlight a common interest she shared with a partner, and show her how that person stepped into the world. 

After dating a whole Payless worth of people in my twenties, I understand this concept better now. Not because I finally wear Jordan’s or Manolo’s, but because I feel the same concept could be applied to cars. 

When I meet a guy on a first date, I reserve my judgment. I don’t immediately scoff at political preference, or side-eye if they hesitate to reach for the check. I hold back. I wait until we walk out of the restaurant, side by side. Sometimes, I walk slowly, conjuring up more trivial facts about my childhood, just to make sure I can walk him all the way to his ride. That’s when I jump to conclusions. That’s when I decide if I’ll see this person ever again. If he drives an unmarked white van, for example, I’m out. But if that van has the name of the business he started from scratch on the side, I’m in. If the van has a #vanlife sticker on the back, and a mattress where back seats should be? Out. If it has a carseat for the kid he’s coparenting? Maybe in- but if that car seat is for his About a Boy style imaginary child? Out. 

A car, like a sneaker, can say so much. It’s not just about the make or model of the man, but also about his values and self respect. 

I went on one date with a man who drove an Aston Martin. He explained, to me, that this was, “James Bond’s car,” and he had been manly enough to pay for it all by himself. I think he thought this would guarantee a second date. He revved his engine, showing off. Then, driving recklessly, proceeded to run over a curb in the parking lot, and damage his whole front bumper. It was hard to watch. He got red, and refused to use my AAA card for a tow. I drove away in my own car, and never saw him again. 

It’s hard to judge a person only on the outside of their car too. Sometimes you have to squish down into their worn leather or synthetically covered seats. You have to peer out through their cracked windshield and see the world from their point of view. You have to sit down, and buckle up, because it’s often the inside that will really tell you if it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

I got into another man’s car on a second date. He had a reasonably fuel efficient white Camery, but, when I got inside the vehicle, I realized I had made a terrible mistake. 

The inside of the White Camery told a different story than the plain spoken exterior. I tried to keep an open mind, I really did. I understand that it can be difficult to mask the smell of Chick Fil A and dirty laundry, but it’s even more difficult when the socks are still on the seat, and the greasy paper bags litter the floor. A word of advice for all the people out there, trying to impress someone on a date: if you have to move garbage, or any personal clutter off of the passenger seat, in order for another human being to sit down, and take the shotgun position in your life, you are not really ready for a relationship. And, if you tell this person, the person you want to maybe share a bed or a kitchen sink with, to, “eh just sit on top of it, or throw it on the floor,” then you should really do some self reflecting.

The inside of my car isn’t perfect, but the beach chair in the boot, and the sand on the seats generally says enough. We may not go today, or tomorrow, but somewhere, down the line, we’ll be soaking up the sun and heading to the beach. 

One man, whose car I really liked, drove a Jeep Cherokee. This midsize SUV  was not too over-the-top. Nor did it look too out of place cruising the streets of a suburban neighborhood. What I liked most about it was that it had the potential to go off-roading, and that level of subtle optimism for adventure really drew me in. I also learned, maybe on my third or fourth date, that the Jeep had been a used car when he bought it. Some men think buying a flashy, new, over-priced model is a flattering demonstration of wealth, power and status, but if you’re dating to settle down, your partner might want some evidence that you’re smart with your money. Buying a decent, used car can show that. 

The army-green Jeep stayed in my life for almost three months. We connected in some important ways; we both loved to travel, but knew how to work hard too. The dates were fun and romantic, but when we realized that the longer road trips might be a little rocky, we respectfully parted ways. 

My admiration for the cars men drive also makes me think about the ride I choose for myself. In 2003, I was twelve, and Charese Therone taught Mark Walhberg how to drive through LA traffic in a 1963 Mini Coupe. It was a bright red, with white stripes, and it became my dream car. It was sporty, boxy, feminie and quick. The perfect car for zipping around town. 

When I finally bought my dream car, I was twenty-five, and she was a used, but immaculate 2009 red Mini Cooper S with white stripes on the hood. The sunroof could roll all the way back if I held the button down on the keypad long enough, and I could open the drivers side door with a satisfying thwomp. She was my baby. She was my pride and joy. The pep in my step on my driveway walk. The puff in my chest whenever I drove a guest. My Mini Cooper said everything the world needed to know about me.

I loved my Mini Cooper. I loved her so much, I paid for the extra brake pads and replacement bulbs that burnt out from time to time. I paid the extra labor hours for minor motor adjustments because he was compact, and I liked that. We would parallel park with ease and smirk at the skeptical pedestrians when everything fit just right. I knew how to warm her up, and defrost her down. I grumbled about the size of her cramped back seats when I shoved friends into the small space, but in my heart, I knew this car wasn’t built for them, it was built for me. Just me. 

Occasionally, I’d take my Mini out on dates too. “Oh you have a mini” the guys would say.

 And I’d flip my hair off my shoulder, reach for the keys, and say, “yeah, I do.”

“I’ve never been in a Mini before” some would say, and they’d marvel at the surprising comfort, the novelty. 

A Mini Cooper has everything that other cars have; locks, buttons, and speedometers. But in a Mini Cooper, these normal feathers are designed with aesthetics that delight some, and fruterate others. The gas gauge and speedometer are centered on the dashboard, so everyone in the car, even the back seat friends, can see where we’re at in our journey. It takes getting used to, but it’s honest. The lever to pull one of the seats back to access the rear, is not down towards the bottom, but up on the shoulder. Not obvious, but natural once you’ve pulled it once or twice. And even though the back seat is small, it folds down to give ample storage space as long as you’re traveling with no more than two people. 

I did date a guy who also drove a Mini Cooper once, and we thought it was cute for a few weeks, but it couldn’t last. Minis are unique, and I think we both wanted our own little spotlight. 

If all relationships made perfect sense though, everyone would be driving around in a silver Prius. They are fuel efficient, highly ranked for crash-test safety, and retain their value more than most other cars on the road. There is nothing really wrong with a silver Prius. They are reliable and consistent, and even when they do break down, or require a tune up, they aren’t going to ask too much of you when you invest in helping them out. On paper, these might be the people we really want too. But not all of us can be so straightforward. Some of us are hamsters, dancing around with our friends. Some people like gray, or white, but I’m glad those people park right next to all the sunflower yellow Voltzwagans and  appreciate that a little pizzazz never hurt anyone.

I’ll know I’ve found my perfect match when he drives a black Toyota Tacoma. Preferably the first generation model between 1995 and 2004. Anytime I see one on the road, there is always an attractive specimen at the wheel. Trucks are just so masculine. Paternal in all the gear they can fit in their rugged durable beds. A man who drives a truck can chop the lumber to build you a house, drive across a dirt road to get you where you need to go, and pack a picnic or spare bike with no trouble at all. A truck bed is a great place to share a beer, or first kiss. A raised cabin gives any couple a clear view of the road ahead, and a truck can be there, to help those family members with loads too big for them to carry alone. A truck is a great car. It’s sexy. 

I haven’t met my Toyota Tacoma yet, but part of me knows I won’t be in a single car park forever. For now, the car I drive is perfect. It’s love, and I will only ever share it with someone who really gets me. Someone, like the black Subaru driver I rolled alongside the other day. Traffic was moving, but still slow, and when this particular car pulled in front of me, it made me smile. I never exchanged a glance with the driver, or even saw what they looked like. They did, however, give me a good chuckle when I read the license plate that said, “SUBY WU.”