Driving Men Wild
I drive a ten-year-old Toyota minivan. And while the interior still feels luxurious to me—comfy leather seats that heat up when I’m cold, lots of elbow room, and still drives smooth as pie—from the outside, the car looks, well…shabby. The white front fender has big black stitches in the middle after a pothole ripped it and killed my radiator, and has a large dimple from a mishap in a parking lot.
The back bumper looks misaligned—because some trees refused to get out of the way when I was backing up. The sliding door on the passenger side has a rag tied to the handle to remind me not to open it—because once opened, it’s extremely difficult to get shut. And the van always sports a sheen of brown dust from my country road, unless we’ve very recently had a torrential rainstorm.
The only thing that looks new are the tires. That’s because they are new. While hauling my trash and recycling to town one day, I noted the tone of the tires on the blacktop sounded off, and by the time I pulled into the Berryville recycling center, it was apparent that I had a flat tire. Not just flat—destroyed. I called for a tow truck. Turns out both front tires were useless. And one of the back ones had seen better days. So, it made sense to get a whole new set of tires.
But which ones? After some discussion, price checks, and ogling of the sample tires on display, I opted for the heftier deep treaded ones. My gravel road has eaten up a lot of “normal” tires since the time the car was new, so big thick tread made sense.
I was mildly concerned about the extra money, and the tires are louder than the old ones when I’m cruising on the blacktop—but I felt safer driving on my rocky county road. I’d made the right choice. Still, it would be nice to have some acknowledgment. So, I pointed out the new tires to my daughter—who was non-plussed: “Yup. They’re tires.”
But days later, when a male friend came to visit, his eyes went straight to the van, which he’d seen hundreds of times. But this time was different.
“Nice tires! I really like your new tires!
I hadn’t even pointed them out. In fact, I’d all but forgotten about them. I was flabbergasted that he noticed. And impressed that he was impressed.
And that was my first clue. Since then, I’ve collected sufficient evidence to believe a woman interested in attracting a man can forgo diets and exercise. She needn’t bother with sexy clothes and lingerie or fuss about new recipes—despite the old saying “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” If you really want a man to notice you, put some big-ass chunky tires on your vehicle. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter what kind of vehicle you have. Big-ass tires, with thick tread seem to be a beacon for male admiration.
Now admittedly there have been one or two men who didn’t notice—but these are men who wouldn’t likely notice a new dress or lingerie either. But my new tires have carried me to the Great Lakes and back—and wherever I go, they get attention. Male attention. After all those years of trying to get men to cease making comments about butts, breasts, or any other part of a woman’s anatomy, I’ve found the secret. “Whoa!—Great tires!” is a refreshing comment.