Girls in Trucks

Not to be confused with Girls on Trucks, which may be one of those shrink-wrapped magazines on the top rack at 7eleven.

I need to make an at the very least controversial assertion that we, husbands, may not fully appreciate the coolness capacity of our wives until we have watched them drive a rickety, rusted out, power steering and air conditioning-less pickup in a humid and pothole filled country. Ideally in a tank top with Jackie-O sunglasses. It's a pretty bad-ass sight to behold, like watching your mother eat balut. I'll go ahead and extend this observation to girlfriend-boyfriends, girlfriend-girlfriend, and mother-child relationships.

As sexist as that might sound I also want to point out that a book came out recently also called Girls in Trucks which, from what I gather from the Amazon book review, is all about women who are living life on their own in New York, apparently the testing ground for living life on one's own. If anyone's actually read the book please feel free to correct my usage or advise me on it's merits or defects.


This isn't to say that women can't drive trucks - more that trucks lend themselves to the kind of decay and disrepair that some women and many modern men for that matter would normally opt out of. Somehow you stop thinking about all the previous owners back-sweat that may have soaked into the fabric seating after you've contributed a few pints of your own. In this new age of GPS navigation, climate zones, bumper video cameras and engines that turn off at stop lights, it's nice to know that we can get by with four wheels and a windshield. Well, you know what I mean.