A little over a year ago, my husband and I purchased a Ford F-350, King Ranch edition. It takes diesel fuel, has a leather interior, and can haul 15,000 pounds down the freeway at 80 miles an hour. It also comes with a handy catalog where I can buy (were I so inclined) pricey furniture in the form of cow hide sofas and antler chandeliers.
My husband has been dreaming up ways to improve the thing since about 2 days before we even signed the purchasing paperwork.
The latest project is a lift kit. For months, he has been asking my opinion on various rims and tires and lift heights. And while I appreciate being an integral part of the decision-making process, it all kind of looks the same to me. Like, for example, if we decided to paint the kitchen walls a cream color and I asked him, “Honey, which do you like better… the eggshell, the ivory, or the alabaster?”
But I did have one request, namely that I did not want the final product to look as if we were ready to enter a monster truck rally.
So he picked out some very reasonable tires and found a 4 ½ inch lift that he liked.
Once the conversion was complete, he drove our taller, tougher-looking truck over to our friend’s house so everyone could admire the finished product. Someone wanted to know how he had convinced me to agree to the lift. “Oh, she likes it,” he replied, “she just doesn’t know it yet!”
I do like it, actually. But I can’t get too excited or he might get more ideas. He’s already moved on to air bag suspension systems…
