Angie is my favorite person in the whole world. She and I do a lot together. And I mean a whole lot! We get coffee. Manicures. Pedicures. Facials. We’ve been known to get massages simultaneously but with different masseuses. Huh. That would be kinda hard. Two massages at the same time? I wonder if Sven could do it? If anyone could, it’d be him.

Sorry, got a little sidetracked. I mean, come on. It’s kinda easy with a massage therapist like Sven. He’s not tall, but, girl! He’s got some kind of muscles on him. And I mean the sexy kind. Not those gross, veiny kind of bucket-headed, muscle-headed dudes. So, yeah. My BFF Angie and I love going places and doing things. Especially going on out-of-town trips to Saint Louis or Memphis. It’s far enough from Jackson, Missouri, to make it feel like an adventure, but also close enough that we can be home in a few hours.

Besides loving to drive, something Angie doesn’t enjoy but will do if she has to, I love listening to music. And the two of us put together? Eclectic taste barely scratches the surface of the music genres we will and have listened to. Ska. Punk. Rock. 80s and 90s pop, rock, and R&B. Jazz. Classical. Musicals. If you name a song or an artist, and if I don’t know it, Angie will! Television and movies are more me, whereas Angie likes the outdoors, camping, hiking, and all that jazz. We both love good food. And coffee? Two coffee snob-nerds in the same vehicle stopping at some hole-in-the-wall café? Well, that’s just trouble waiting to happen. Her preferred drink? That all depends on where we go. But if I’m ordering for her? It’s a flat white with oak milk.

So, I want to tell you about our latest adventure, Angie and I are heading to Saint Louis for a show. But it’s not just any show. This was a Beatles tribute band. Daddy picked out the venue and the band. Neither Angie nor I knew anything about them besides that they had a following. The other fun fact was they hadn’t performed in Saint Louis in several years. We were in for a real treat. Thanks, Daddy!

Friday, I got off work a little later than expected, which worked out okay, considering Angie had a massage with Sven. Lucky girl! As a woman, do you know how convenient it is for you and your bestie to wear the same size? I wasn’t about to wear my work clothes to the Pepperland concert, so I grabbed a clean pair of Angie’s jeans. At least, I think they were hers. We trade clothes so often that we lose track of who owns what. Why does that matter? We can both wear it, so why not share? Jeans. I threw on a Beatles t-shirt that I was confident I purchased a few weeks ago. I wondered why it wasn’t in my closet. Now I knew. I considered wearing spikes for a second, then changed my mind. If we started dancing, I really didn’t want my bare feet touching a floor I didn’t know was clean. And if you are a girl wearing heels, you know you don’t dare dance in them unless you want blisters or worse! After picking out the outfit, the Birkenstocks, and a light jacket, I had everything for the show. A quick application of some makeup; eyeliner, lipgloss, and just a light brush of mascara, and I was ready to rock and roll!

Angie changed her outfit four times before I had my makeup on. My hair was a nightmare, so I grabbed a cute hat, hoping it would hide the nightmare hair underneath. It did the trick! Now, we were ready to go. Angie also wore a t-shirt, and hers was tie-dyed on a yellow-colored t-shirt. The pinks, reds, and blues fit well with the yellow. She put on a white shell choker necklace, accenting her pale skin. Her dark blue jeans had strategic holes, letting a little of skin show. She also wore flats, not sandals, because she knew, without a doubt, that she would be on the dance floor.

“Want to drive?” Angie asked, tossing me the keys to her Forester. Angie bought the car a few months ago, not letting anyone drive it. Now that the car’s newness had worn off, she was more apt to let someone else drive. Out of the two of us? I had no tickets or accidents. In fairness, neither did Angie. She just liked to have time to text, look at social media, or balance her checkbook while someone else handled the driving. As for me? I loved driving, and she knew it.

“Sure!” I couldn’t contain my excitement. I’d been in the Subaru before, but only in the passenger seat. This time, I was in control and ready to take this puppy for a spin. Oh yeah, girlfriend! “Let’s go!” I squealed.

A pushbutton start? I was not used to it, and I remembered she never put a key in the ignition. But start the car with a button? I press it. Nothing happened. I pressed it again. Still nothing. “You have to push the brake pedal, then the button.”

I followed Angie’s instructions, and the car came to life, the radio blaring halfway through U2’s song, ‘Beautiful Day.’ Angie spun the volume to off. “Sorry about that!”

“Personal jam time?” I asked. Angie smiled and shrugged.

I checked the gas gauge. The last time we took a trip? We almost ran out of gas before we got started. Angie’s got this thing about driving every last drop of gas out of the tank. That goes for rental cars, company vehicles, or anything else gasoline-powered. If it ran on gas, she’d let it get to empty before refilling it. Why some girls do this, I don’t know. Later, she’d tell me why she let it get so low. “I didn’t want to break a nail.” We got manicures a few days earlier. Today, the gauge read full.

We took off, getting up to speed on the Interstate. Angie’s idea of the speed limit? Ten over. How she’d never been ticketed was beyond me. She didn’t have a radar detector, not that it would prevent a laser-targeted speed tracker from catching her.

I set the cruise control at 70 MPH, the speed limit for I-55 North. Now, there’s an interesting fact about Subarus. The volume and the cruise control settings are on opposite sides of the steering wheel. Cruise control can be set with your right thumb. The volume control? It’s on the left and can also be set with your left thumb. Talking over the noise from the sunroof being open and the radio’s volume turned up was next to impossible. And did I mention it? We both love to talk, and we do it a lot. We’ll be on the phone for hours, and our respective boyfriends wonder why we aren’t answering them.

Remember, this is Angie’s car, not mine, so she knows where all the controls are. Right?

“Ooh! I love this song,” she says, reaching over and pressing the acceleration for the cruise control. “Why isn’t the volume going up?” I look down at our speed: 95 miles per hour, twenty-five miles over the speed limit. The volume still isn’t increasing. “What the heck?” she says to me.

“Um, Angie?” I glance at the speedometer. We’re almost going one hundred miles per hour, literally going so fast we’re passing cars in the right lane like they are standing still. “Angie?” She’s still pressing the acceleration switch upward, completely clueless.

“My car is broken, dang it!” She was on the verge of tears. I took her hand off the acceleration control for the cruise control.

“Do you want me to set the cruise control at ninety-five because we’re almost at one hundred.”

Angie blinked a few times, not quite comprehending what I said. “What?”

“We’re almost going 100 miles per hour. Should I slow down?”

“Heck yeah! Why are you going so fast?”

“You did that.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Yes,” I said, pointing to the cruise control acceleration switch. “It’s not the volume, hon.”

Angie’s face turned red. “Slow down, please.” From that moment onward, she asked me to turn it up.