“Race you home.” was what the young lady in the gym parking lot said to her young man as they kissed, let each other’s hands squeeze for a moment, before they walked away from each other to climb into their huge, gas-guzzling trucks from hell. Huge monstrosities that the farmers in my family would give body parts to be able to afford.

It was just so…decadent. They actually drove to the gym in separate behemoths. I’m talking the Transformer-inspired Chevy thing and the Dodge with the flaired fenders that almost clear my head. There were no trailer hitches…I was flabbergasted enough to actually look.

I must be getting old. I cringe when I fill the Hyundai and almost weep when we fill the van. I don’t get it. And I won’t ask if I see them again. I don’t have to. I mentioned it to a group of younger folks at work and one of them said, “Me and my husband do that all the time…we like different radio stations.” blink-blink A younger guy kind of nodded like, “Yeah, we do that.”

Is it just me or does that just seem like one of the signs that a culture is imploding?