It began as a thought. The kind that flits through your mind like a moth, landing lightly before disappearing. Only this one stayed. It drifted from brain to throat, emerging as a joke:

“If I sell this book,” I said. “I’m buying a Porsche.”

My husband laughed and I did as well, but a small part of me felt serious.

When the conversations with publishers deepened, I told him I might schedule some test drives.

“Lauren, I thought this was a joke.” He looked alarmend, which caused a slight fear to run through me. Once you’ve been labeled unstable, you don't have a lot of runway for ridiculous fantasies and cooky ideas before people start becoming actually concerned.

“Maybe at first,” I said. “But the more I think about it, the more I think it’s something I really want."

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “We all want Porsches.”

“So, why can’t I get one? I mean, if it's my money and my car..."

“Because, he said. "You don't just get a Porsche."

“Why not? I see people driving Porsches all the time.”

"Yeah and they're either old or rich. Trust me, I get it. I want one too. But I'm waiting until my fiftieth birthday."

Something about his last statement flared something in me.