in the pickup

Whilst the Neon is at the doctor, we are using the pick-up.  You have to understand, this is a family pick-up--so much so that my father-in-law is still the title holder of record.  Never mind that he's been gone for several years, now.  It's sometimes easier to have a deceased title holder than to transfer said title.  (Have you tried to change a title lately?)  I'm thinking it could make for a most interesting law suit should something happen.  Hopefully, we will avoid finding out!  Anyhow.  I have decided a marked change in attitude occurs when you get behind the wheel of a pick up.  I'm pretty sure that it would cure any male suffering from "low T"!  The boost of macho energy is almost visible.  I know it's discernible!  From a somewhat apologetic driver of a sub compact, I become the obvious heir to the road behind the wheel of the Chevy S-10.  Okay, so its not a monster pick-up.  But the swagger exists just the same.  How else could this macho man haul 25 bags of mulch at one time.  And of course, that means loading and unloading them, at 33 pounds a bag.  What a stud!  Then there's that whole four-wheel drive thing.  Whoosh!  The testosterone just hit new levels talking about it.  Never mind the fact that we are retired and don't need to go out in blizzards.  We CAN!  Then of course, there is the image factor.  Retired old people who are somewhat sickly and poor drive sub-compacts.  Macho men, with abs of steel and muscles that bulge beyond belief drive pick-ups.  My superbly defined pecs and my muscular legs sit proudly behind the wheel.  The look of extreme self-confidence radiates my facial structure.  A look of self-assurity adorns my visage.  And I feel pretty good about myself, too!  All this, AND hauling capacity.  How could it be better? 
Please realize, at my age, these experiences must be limited.  I'm not sure how much the heart could take the release of all these endorphins on a constant basis.  Tomorrow, when the Neon is back, I shall meekly sit behind the wheel, allowing others the pure bliss of the pick-up!  I will quietly park, grope my way out of the car, and refuse to lock it on the chance that someone may be foolish enough to steal it.  But they won't.  And that's good.  The Neon is truly great!  It's been mine since I broke my arm in 1994, and will be mine until I turn 65 and move on to my other rapturous, orgasmic vehicle.  But the convertible is another blog, and you are loved!