Stefani Jelić is The Motor Report's female conscience. Unfortunately, she's as much a car enthusiast as the rest of us, so she's rubbish as an inner voice.
Living a life where a love affair with a $400 pair of Jimmy Choos can equal the love of a well-tuned engine on the side, what’s a girl to do?
She buys the Jimmy Choos, packs them in the back of her little car (with a killer outfit to match, of course) hoping that she’ll be able to show them off at dinner that night.
Of course, upon arriving at her destination, she soon realises that perhaps the idea of dinner out with friends and sexy footwear was best left back home in Sydney. Two pieces of chicken, a slice of pizza and a few vodkas later, maybe staying in was the better option. After all, what kind of girl wants to ruin her shoes walking around on Wakefield Park's gravel?
Oh, I should introduce myself. If it helps, you lads can think of me as TMR’s own Carrie Bradshaw, mixed with Angelina Jolie in Gone in 60 Seconds (yes, I’ve got the boobs).
In a world of love, cars, and shoes (and love for the latter two), I got to thinking of how alike buying the right pair of shoes is to buying the right car, and finding the right guy. It occurred to me that it all comes down to purpose. Are these shoes for work, and do they therefore need to be comfortable and practical? Or are they to attract attention so I can have people gushing over my stunning footwear (and, of course, their wearer)?
Conversely, do I want a simple, practical car with a small appetite that will get me from one side of Sydney to the other with ease on a Shopping Saturday? Or do I want something that is going to turn heads as I roll down the main drag of a morning, afternoon or evening? The same goes with men: Do I want something serious with this guy, or not? Do I want him to be a permanent fixture in my life, or do I simply want someone I can call at 2am because I’ve drunk three quarters of a bottle of red wine and don’t intend to go to bed alone?
We all want some form of a status symbol in our lives, whether it be a scorching hot imported car (that you had to wait for two months before it arrived), that hot guy at the bar (whom you’ve been eyeing off for two months), or that pair of three and a half inch stilettos you saw in the window of a shoe store (whilst making your way back to the car after one too many champagnes at a cocktail party for a winter promotion in Double Bay). The question I put to you is: Is it worth it?
Is it worth spending in the vicinity of $10,000 on modifications which, in most cases, will not add any real value to the car? Is it worth spending the $600 I saved up (admittedly only to be able to say I have savings) on those sexy stilettos I saw in the window and convince myself, even though I will only wear them once, that I really need them? Is it worth taking that guy from the bar home with you only to wake up and find that he has left you there alone, but with a smile on your face, remembering what fun you had that night?
Yes. If it’s a passion of yours, then absolutely yes. A million times yes.
As a kid growing up, I was always the tomboy. Daddy’s little girl. Helping him wash the car in the rain, asking him ‘what does that do?’ and ‘how does that work?’, walking past his workshop on the way to school to see what car he was toiling on that week. I wasn’t old enough to notice the apprentices, but once I hit high school and had determined that boys weren’t made of snips and snails and puppy dog tails, I wasn’t stopping in just for the cars anymore.
Entering high school, I realised very early on that I had more in common with boys than girls. Girls, to me, were a bunch of whiny, gossipy, look-at-me look-at-me bimbos, craving attention from the boys I was associating with. And it soon dawned on me, entering senior year with two failed high school relationships behind me: I will always be one of the boys, never with one of the boys. So I endure, opting for the motoring mags over the girly ones.
Of course, these days I do pick up the odd Cleo or Cosmo… for the shoes, of course.
See you next month, boys and girls. Mwah.
Stefani M Jelić
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