It was literally a dark and stormy night. I was heading home about 10:30 when I saw a familiar car on the side of the road. I knew it belonged to an RN who assisted in at-home child birth. I pulled in ahead of her so she'd see it was my car (custom plates) and went back to talk to her.
"This piece of crap car is fighting me and the Johnsons are about to go up by one! I can't get it to do more than ten miles an hour."
"You take my car, I'll drive yours back to my place and call a shop to pick it up in the morning."
She agreed and took off in my Sierra while I got to nurse a '67 Camaro through a thunderstorm with tornado warnings out. As I was driving along hoping nobody would rear-end me it suddenly hit me. Here I am, sixty-six years old, and I'm finally driving a mid-wife crisis car.