I drive a 2005 Pontiac Grand Prix.
Waiting for the punch line? That’s the punch line.
I drive the most-average car in America. It’s like eating a Louis Rich cold-cut turkey sandwich for lunch. With no condiments.
It’s like eating bran flakes. Or drinking tap water. Room-temperature tap water.
Driving an eight-year-old Pontiac Grand Prix is, on a scale of 1-10, a 5.
So, here’s the deal: I’m 34. I’m single. I need to attract a mate.
And I’m constantly embarrassed at the idea of meeting someone out or picking them up in my Pontiac. In fact, as I type, I’m planning to meet someone out for drinks tomorrow.
What will she think of my car?
I’m often heard these days using the line: “I could DEFINITELY get a girlfriend with one of those,” referring to some amazing car I happen upon.
I could totally get a girl in a fly Caddy.
Then it hit me: Do I really want the kind of girl in my life that’s going to evaluate my worth based on my car?
Of course I don’t.
So, now the Pontiac has purpose. It’s more than just a car to get me from Point A to Point B at a totally average pace.
It’s the Girlfriend Litmus Test.
If I roll up in my Pontiac, and she’s still like: “Ohhhh Matt, you’re the best ever,” then I know I have a keeper.