Hello guys and gals – do you remember the car you lusted after in your youth? The one that made your heart do the four-on-the-floor chrome-rimmed tap dance whenever you spotted it in the rear view mirror of your adolescent dreams? For some it was a cherry-red muscle car, all growl and rumble, spitting flames like a four-wheeled dragon, sort of like the Little Deuce Coupe. For others, it was a sleek, space-age Jetsons coupe, built for moonlit skies – a silver moon dream with taillights like fallen stars.

Me? My object of automotive affection was something else entirely. It was sleek, yes. It was sporty, definitely. Oh it wouldn’t win any drag races unless the competition involved molasses trucks and uphill inclines. No, my beloved chariot was a testament to the sleek and shiny object with tail lights that blinked on and off with the urgency of a future disco ball on overdrive. I present to you, in all its glorious, chrome-coated absurdity, my desired 1964 Studebaker Lark Convertible first seen by me on my old favorite TV show Mister ED the talking horse.

Mister ED Was not just any old horse and The Studebaker Lark Convertible was not just any old car; it was a rolling chrome castle, a land barge sculpted from sheet metal and ambition. The paint job was a shade best described as “nuclear tangerine” that could induce sunspots if stared at for too long. And the interior? Plush red vinyl that stuck to your legs in the summer and felt like an ice rink in winter, accompanied by a symphony of rattles and squeaks that would make a mariachi band blush.

But oh, the memories! That car was supposed to be my chariot to college dances, the soundtrack of first crushes and fumbled teenage kisses provided by a crackly AM radio playing Meatloaf and his ‘Paradise By The Dashboard Light’. The car was going to carry me on road trips fueled by gas station sandwiches and dreams bigger than the whole sky. It would keep me safe through fender benders that miraculously would involve only crumpled hubcaps and bruised egos, and it witnessed more spilled soda than a teenage slumber party at a bowling alley.

It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t efficient, and it certainly wasn’t practical. But that Studebaker Lark Commander Convertible would teach me the joy of the open road, the thrill of independence, and the hilarious absurdity of owning a car that looked like it belonged on the set of a Batman movie directed by Liberace.

So, while others may reminisce about Thomas Magnum’s Ferrari and Jim Rockford’s Pontiac Firebird my automotive nostalgia came adorned with chrome fins and an engine purr that sounded suspiciously like a lawnmower stuck in molasses. And I wouldn’t trade in those memories in for a fleet of Teslas because that car, with its ridiculous tail fins and questionable paint job, wasn’t just a motor vehicle, it was a rolling ode to a simpler time, a testament to the fact that sometimes the most unforgettable journeys can be made only in the most inexcusable and improbable machines – especially in our memories.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with an imagined can of Turtle Wax and my ongoing dream of cruising down memory lane in my chrome-coated chariot of yesteryear. Just watch out for those front grilles baby – they bite.

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Life before my Great Sock Liberation Day, as I call it with a yawn-inducing lack of drama, was a symphony of socks: cotton, wool, nylon, ankle, crew, knee-high – they were, as the Old Testament might say ‘a plague upon my house’. Every morning for me was a ballet of fumbling and frustration, battling those pesky tubes of fabric onto my sock weary feet. It was the Sisyphean task of my existence, pushing socks uphill only for them to mysteriously vanish later into the Great Dryer Void.

Then bam! One day I visited Cape Cod in the summer. Mashpee – not a particularly exciting name, I know, but Mashpee had a secret weapon: a summer time climate that mocked the very concept of footwear. Stepping onto their beach was like dropping into a warm, wet, sockless bath. My toes, perpetually imprisoned in their real and faux cloth prisons, reveled in their freedom. Sun, sand, sea, and…no itchy scratchy fabric constricting my tiny bottom-most phalanges. It was bliss. “Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty I was free at last.”

Of course, the liberation wasn’t immediate. Years of my feet having been sock conditioned had instilled a personal Pavlovian dread of bare feet. The first barefoot steps on sun-warmed sand sent shivers down my spine, as if tiny friendly sand monsters were gnawing on my exposed toes. But Mashpee, in its gentle, sock-hating way, persisted in its seduction: each day, I ventured further and further barefoot as I went deeper and deeper into their sand-dusted paradise.

Suddenly, the world felt keener. The texture of the sand, the coolness of the tide, the prickle of stray blades of grass – all these sensations, muffled by socks for so long (too long) came rushing in. It was like literally rediscovering a forgotten or long lost limb: my toes tingling with newfound sentience spoke to me like never before.

Later and back in the cold, sock-enforced world, the change was profound. The scratchy wool became an irritant, the cotton a dulling agent. I started venturing out, me now a sock-less rebel among the sandal-wearers and sock-less loafer lovers. The stares from the majority of sock wearers I received were worth the toe freedom I now enjoyed.

Sure, there were bumps along the way – a rogue Lego brick, a particularly spiky pebble. But such missteps were a badge of honor, a reminder that freedom comes with its own unique set of hazards. And besides, what’s a little pain compared to the thrill of feeling the world, unfiltered, through my naked toes?

My Great Sock Liberation was not just about footwear, it was a philosophical awakening. It taught me that the most liberating experiences in life often begin with a simple single step outside my comfort zone, even if that zone happens to be a stifling wool or cotton or synthetic sock. It taught me to embrace the unexpected, the sand-gritty, the Scatterjack-infested walkabouts and to revel in the joy of feeling the free world around me, one bare toe at a time.

So, the next time you find yourself battling a stubborn sock, take a deep breath and contemplate the beaches of Cape Cod. Remember, freedom (and slightly bruised toes) await you on the other side. Do put some shoes on in the winter, though. Nobody appreciates frostbite toes, not even the most ardent of us champions of sock liberation.

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