Sports Cars and Slippery Cheeses

One of my more intense pleasures lies in making and listening to ridiculous analogies. Sure, one can always display a great deal of intelligence and knowledge through mere explanation, but give me a person who explains recent economic theories through the medium of gluten-free cake and I’ll soak up every word.

Therefore, you’ll be seeing plenty of these kinds of odd couples in my essays.

For instance, I have “too” many cars and it can be hard to explain why. But if I compare each of them with the constituents of one of my other favorite sets of items - say, cheese - then I think you’ll grasp the unassailable reasoning behind my predilection for collection.

Let’s start with my favorite, the Miata.

This is not a useful car. Sure, it’s clever and beautifully engineered as well as quite attractive, but if you choose to drive a sports car you are making a unmistakable announcement to the world. “World,” you are saying, “behold me. I am frivolous. My days in this flesh are numbered and therefore I render them even more endangered by strapping myself into this amalgamation of metal and fire. I fight against the coming darkness not with a grumble, but with a torch made of frivolity and giggles.”

Or at least that’s what I’m trying to say.

When searching for a cheese that would best compliment this car, one must look for something similarly useless. And since there is no official “Taylor Swift” cheese that would fit that description perfectly, then we must head towards the smellier end of the spectrum. Why? No one needs smelly cheese. Have you ever had a pizza ruined because of a lack of smell? How about some cheesy potatoes (disgusting, don’t get me started… yet) that weren’t quite offensive enough in the olfactory department?

No, generally and pretty much universally, the more ripe cheeses are considered decadent. Special. The kind of thing you pull lovingly out of the cheese drawer, hopefully in the presence of a hushed audience. Some of the more emotional attendees may faint out of anticipation. Burly people grunt approvingly. There may be a snide comment or two from an unsophisticated aunt or uncle, and they are shunned accordingly. No, Gerald, no one really likes you. We just invite you to these things because Grandma would be sad otherwise, but your lack of appreciation for the finer things like a truly stinky blue belies your general buffoonishness. Plus your haircut is unseemly. We all know you’re bald. Get out.

Goodness, I’m all worked up about an imaginary uncle who doesn’t appreciate cheese. You can tell this is my real passion. Imaginary Uncle Gerald’s reaction to the imaginary stinky blue cheese would be the exact mirror of his feelings regarding the Miata. “Girly car,” he’d say, leaning against the garage wall after I just unveiled it to the family. “What are you, A HAIRDRESSER BROUHAHA cough cough cough HAHAHA.”

Good one, Gerry. Never heard it before. You should go on the road with that act. Better yet, the middle of the freeway.

But a true connoisseur knows the worth both of a blue and a Miata. They are acquired tastes, but as with them all, they are the tastes that make life hold its color. One does not put a blue cheese into one’s Macaroni and Cheese. Believe me. I’ve tried. It is amazing I’m still married.

No, a blue is for special occasions, or at least occasions one wishes to make special. A Miata makes every drive special.

And let’s be more specific regarding the blue about which we are talking: I think that while the Miata is rare-ish, it’s no exotic, and neither should be the cheese. Therefore, it’s Cambozola. This is a cheese that, while relatively recently created (1983), seems timeless and perfect. It draws from two amazing ancestors - Gorgonzola and Camembert - to emerge as something even more perfect. It’s creamy yet sharp, but never overpowering. It is soft, but not too soft, not to the point of messiness. It is a stinky toe jam down pillow - strange and a bit eww, but comforting in its consistency. Sounds like heaven.

The Miata was similarly inspired by old Lotus Elans and MG sports cars, but only took the good parts and added a huge dash of reliability. It’s soft. I’ll never win a drag race at a stop light, because I don’t care to. You see, Mr. Tesla or Ms. BMW, I am secure enough in my personhood to be able to simply enjoy a fun romp down a twisty highway. Being beat by you at a stoplight results in two things: I go home in one piece, and you go home to an empty life. The vacuum void where your heart once lay is not filled sufficiently by the siren song of the inline six in your M3.

No, I’ll be smiling all the way home. I may not be able to drag that bedframe around, or carry all those kids to soccer practice, but for just a few minutes on the drive from work I’ll be blissfully unaware of all my cares. I won’t be scared of excessive speed that results in a ticket, nor breaking down on the side of the road near “Honest Ernie’s Basement Surprise Hut”. And when I get home, I’ll open the fridge and reverently pull out a wedge of a very special, yet very dependable friend, and my life will feel complete.