Up until last week, I had three good reasons to admire the prestige of a Cadillac:
1) There was the Caddy driven by my late Grandpa DiTorrice. I was too young to remember that gem, but the connection to my Grandpa automatically gives it street cred.
2) As a pre-teen, I dreamed of one day selling enough lipstick and rouge to earn myself a fancy pink Cadillac from the Mary Kay cosmetics company. Oh, how the neighbors would covet my ride!
3) Then there was that other pink Cadillac during my teen years in which I envisioned myself riding in the back and cruising down the street with Mr. Bruce Springsteen while the E Street Band followed close behind.
Last weekend I was presented with the keys to my very own 2012 black Cadillac to drive for a work trip to Minneapolis. I bragged to my husband, I tweeted my good fortune, and I even updated my Facebook page to reflect my cool new status. In the car, I explored everything from the double sunroof to the rear-view video display to the analog clock in the center panel that looked unusually elegant.
On Sunday afternoon, the roadtrip began. Almost five hours and a venti nonfat skinny mocha later, I realized that the Cadillac is really just a means of getting me from point A to point B…not that impressive, actually.
There’s just no denying that five hours in any car is going to cause bum pain. The type of vehicle you drive simply determines how pretentious you can be when describing the pain. I break it down as such:
- Chevy Silverado: After five hours in my husband’s full-size extended cab pick-up truck, my ass hurts.
- Honda Odyssey: After five hours in my kid friendly sky blue soccer mom minivan, my pooper aches.
- 2012 Cadillac: After five hours in my fully loaded luxury sedan, my derrière is experiencing extreme discomfort.
In other words, it’s all the same to me. I don’t know what Grandpa D, Mary Kay, and the Boss think they knew about Cadillacs, but the next time I’m asked to visit Minneapolis, I’m going to check out cheaptickets.com and arrive in less than an hour.
