I have a confession to make: there is another woman in my husband’s life. How can I sit here and calmly type such a thing, you ask? Because I’ve known about it for two years and I realize there is really nothing I can do. He’s in love. With a car.

Two and a half years ago, Marty decided he just had to have a blue Mini Cooper. The reason? His arduous and lengthy commute to work: the Mini is quite efficient and uses very little gas.

Me: “Of course it uses very little gas: it’s a toy car!”
Marty: “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

So off we went to the Mini dealership for a test drive. Oh, did I mention that I was 8.99 months pregnant at the time of the aforementioned test drive?

Me: staring at impossibly tiny front seat “I’m not going to fit in that car.”
Marty: “Of course you will! Just try it!”
Me: “Greenpeace just put me on their latest watch list – I look like Shamu in a dress – no way!”

I made it inside and was able to clear the dashboard with several relaxing nanometers to spare.

Marty: “Hey, if you fit in here now, then image how comfortable you’ll be when you’re not hu-“
Me: “Not what? Not HUGE?”
Marty: sensing the danger “I love you, honey!”

We bought the Mini. And every Saturday since, my husband disappears to the garage to undertake the same ritual: detailing the car.

Me: “Where have you been for the past three hours?”
Marty: “I noticed a speck of pollen and a fingerprint on the hood of the Mini, so I decided to wash, wax, and detail the entire car inside and out.”
I only wish he was as attentive to the other aspects of domestic life as he is to his beloved Mini Cooper.

Marty: “Honey, where are my socks?
Me: “On your feet, darling.”
Marty: “Oh – thanks!”

I don’t mind sharing him with “the other woman,” as I now call her. She’s quite fun to drive and you can squeeze into impossibly tiny on-street parking spaces in Philly (Ha! Take that, overcrowded, overpriced parking garages!). She’s also quite boxy and cute, perfect for the square format of the vintage viewfinder, so I immortalized her for my husband and boys to enjoy, long after Marty is too old to pull off the driving-a-tiny-blue-car look, and the boys are too tall to fit in the back seat without complaining that their knees are bumping into their chins. Until then, if anyone is looking for Marty on a Saturday, he’s probably in the garage with the other woman.

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