My blind date, Brenda, arrived in a cloud of lavender perfume and a vintage, bright-pink convertible. “Wow,” I stammered, admiring the car more than Brenda, admittedly. It was a glorious, if slightly rusty, piece of automotive history. Brenda, meanwhile, was busy fussing with a ridiculously large sunglasses perched atop her already impressive bouffant.
“So,” she chirped, adjusting a feather boa the color of a flamingo’s heart, “ready for adventure?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I replied, secretly praying “adventure” didn’t involve a high-speed chase.
We were off, the engine sputtering like a grumpy kitten. Brenda sang along to 80s power ballads at the top of her lungs, completely off-key, but with such enthusiasm I couldn’t help but laugh. We stopped for ice cream, she spilled some on her already questionable outfit, and then, disaster struck. The car decided it was done with our impromptu joyride and sputtered to a complete stop, leaving us stranded on a deserted road, miles from anywhere.
“Oh dear,” Brenda said, her usual flamboyant demeanor replaced with a look of genuine panic. “I think I forgot to put petrol in.”
I stared at her, speechless. After a moment of stunned silence, I managed, “Brenda, you mean…this entire ‘adventure’ was fueled by…hope?”
She shrugged, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Well, it *was* a blind date with destiny, wasn’t it? Destiny…and a seriously unreliable car.”
