Can I Get A Prescription For My New Car?

So, this girl ran into me a few months ago. Literally. I was sitting at a stoplight. She had been drinking and was currently texting while not stopping or even slowing down as she drove up behind me—you see the problem? Anyway, one crash later, my old, completely-paid-for, healthy van was a goner and I had to get a new car.

Since I survived breast cancer five years ago, I’ve worked hard at having more fun, more peace, and more mindfulness in my life. I’ve consciously worked at nourishing my body and mind and treating them both a little—no, truthfully, a LOT—better than I had been before cancer. And many of the products and activities that provide nourishment and foster peace, if medically indicated and prescribed, are tax write-offs in the “non-reimbursed medical expense” column, a lesson we learned when our daughter developed autism and almost none of her treatment was covered—but I digress.

So, if I’m getting a new car, and a new car payment to go with it, I’m gonna make sure I smile all the time while driving it. Right? So I got the same car that I had B.K.—Before Kids. Mustang. Stick shift. Convertible. Not car seat-friendly, not especially responsible, but FUN.

But just because a car is FUN doesn’t mean it doesn’t come with rules. For example, since it takes only 14.5 seconds to raise or lower the top, that top MUST be down unless the temperature is higher than 90, lower than 50, or if weather will make the inside of the car wet. Top down translates into lots of wind in my hair, which itself translates into low maintenance haircuts—and no phone use while on the road because whoever I’m talking to can’t hear me speaking over the wind.

Skirts and dresses must be hiked up as high as possible to allow for maximum sun tanning—without indecent exposure, of course. And with all of that sunshine, my vitamin D level is soaring, with excellent immune function improvement.

It’s virtually impossible to eat while driving a stick shift—so I don’t.

There must be singing in the car, all the time. Singing is just like prayer to me and with the top down, it feels so easy to talk to God—so car time translates to prayer time.

The incredible sensory input of driving a stick shift, feeling the road under you and the air all around you, drives out the worries my brain wants to work on, so I can practice being present. Other people smile, and some do laugh, I admit, when they see me driving down the road these days—my joy must be infectious.

Which brings me full circle to my original thought. If there was a pill that would raise a person’s vitamin D3 levels into therapeutic range, improve mood, suppress appetite, obviate the need for hair dye and blow dryers, facilitate therapeutic mindfulness and prayer, and foster the same in others just by virtue of proximity and observation, it would be easy to get a scrip for that pill, wouldn’t it?

So can I get a scrip for my new car?