There are many mysteries in life.
Let me tell you some: the lack of soccer support in the U.S., Stella's cancellation after only one season, and the existence of cats.
But I really don't understand the obsession with cars.
Before and after my dad drives his car, he inspects every square inch. He is the guy who parks really far away from the store, just to ensure that no one will come close to his darling.
One time, he ran over a skateboard my sister left in the driveway. It flipped up and made a little dent above his wheel. We all received the silent treatment for the rest of the day.
Other than that, his baby is spotless.
I cannot say the same about my car. The outside is splattered with year-old bird crap, and the inside may actually be worse. It is my second bedroom.
In my trunk alone, there is a snowboarding jacket, pants, gloves and boots, two boxes of Kleenex, a case of Propel, some Gatorade, a couple pairs of shoes, two jackets, Tupperware and a cute picture of an Irish wolfhound from IKEA.
What some call laziness, I call being prepared.
When I was 2 or so, my uncle bought me this sweet red convertible. It was a badass version of the Barbie Jeep.
I wasn't a very good driver. I'm pretty sure I ran into some things. And when accidents weren't happening, I just did doughnuts in the driveway.
My driving skills haven't improved much.
I can't ever imagine devoting time to a vehicle, like the car fanatics in this week's cover photo essay, "The car cult" (page 18), by writer and photographer Sam Nalven.
The members of the car culture spend as much time and money as possible on their vehicles.
These guys, as Nalven says, will put $30,000 and 3,000 hours of maintenance work into a $20,000 Subaru.
Though the money could probably be better used to buy cute clothes, it's good to see such a positive dedication to any hobby.
And even if I can't quite understand the obsession, I have my own love of imported cars. My 2003 Kia Rio is a speed machine.
