Me and Miz B
When my husband bought Miz Beatrice for me, he didn't just buy me a vehicle that could tow my trailer and keep me from needing to borrow his truck every weekend.
He bought me freedom and confidence.
When I slide up into Miz B's wide, soft, broken-in driver's seat and touch the plastic blue forget-me-not stuck in the doorframe, I change. I start up the engine and the country music radio station comes to life, and I transform from a meek driver who works a desk job to a queen of the rural roads.
In Miz B, I'm the kind of person who drives with the windows down and one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually out the open window, looking at the world from under the brim of my Chevy ball cap. I'm the kind of driver who can hitch up her own trailer without help or a back-up camera in five minutes flat. I become bolder behind the wheel, because I know when my foot goes down on that accelerator, Beatrice is going to go.
I'm ready for anything, because I've got a fully-stocked toolbox in the bed, a pocketknife in my jeans, a set of jumper cables just in case, and tie straps to secure unwieldy loads.
Sure, she creaks and groans around every corner, she's got some rust here and there, and she's not the prettiest spring chicken on the highway. But Miz B is mine, and when I'm sitting in the driver's seat, the road leads to endless adventure.