One lovely November Friday, a baby and a dog took four adults on an early evening walk down Cabrillo boulevard in Santa Barbara.

I remember this day because I was wearing white jeans that had a nickel sized hole on my right butt check, a few inches away from my crack. My boyfriend told me this and I didn’t believe him; he took a photo with my phone and I snatched it up.

It looked like a vermin had taken a quick bite out of my long suffering winter whites. Not egregious enough to warrant a costume change, but irritating. My tiny circle of exposed skin looked scaly and pink. I made a note to artificially tan and exfoliate later.

It was ironic, because I had recently spent a melancholy afternoon thumbing through social media of the actress/artist/poet/style/model variety. After years of indifference, I’ve become newly fascinated by the city of Los Angeles. I can’t really go there currently, so I consume highlights.

I’d spent a long time gazing at a random photo of a beautiful and tan actress/artist/poet/style/model caught in a moment on a set. There seemed to be a shooting of a spot. But then there was an additional film camera shooting photos (unrelated to the spot being shot). This other camera captured her, in combat boots and vintage Levis, a perfect, well placed rip across and under one full luscious cheek. There were no scales in sight. Perfect round, small, wonderfully exposed butt skin.

I was distracted for a time on our walk, thinking about the juxtaposition of the two photos. I, the naked mole rat. Her, a desert peach.

I was humming along in my depressing little joy thieving when I noticed the boys slow their walk and gaze longingly off to the left. As we approached what I thought was a Mustang, I realized it was actually a McLaren. This was only because I was finally close enough to read the car’s insignia on its backside.

A 30ish man in denim emerged from the spaceship door and rounded his sleek white front to open the passenger side. By this time, all six of us had slowed to a crawl, unapologetically invested in whatever treasure lay behind door Number 2.

The door slid up to reveal a carseat with an infant strapped in, like a precious honeydew melon.

My friend snapped her head forward, stiffened a giggle and pushed the stroller ahead. I think my mouth flew open and I raced after her.

“You can’t put a baby in a McLaren!” I whispered angrily, clutching my pearls.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the McLaren baby. How far did they drive? Was the McLaren purchased pre or post baby? Can you effectively rig a car seat in that fire hazard? If it had been a Ford Mustang baby, I can’t know if I would have cared as much. I only recognized the significance of the car once I saw the writing on it’s ass.

A few weeks later after Zumba in the Park, I returned to my 2015 Pollock-ed Prius, courtesy of some vengeful neighborhood birds, to find the same McLaren parked behind me.

I checked the trusty logo to make sure it was actually her.

MCLAREN.

I snapped a photo and prepared to text it to our thread, giddy with the manifestation, ready to make some irreverent jokes to my friends.

I paused. I circled the car like a hyena. I stood staring, read it again. MCLAREN. Then I lost the wind in my weird floppy sail.

An intoxicating piece of perfectly constructed machinery doesn’t predicate it’s value. I realized the most magical thing about that McLaren was the tiny new life in his little blue onesie.

A ripe fruit in a desert, tan limbs akimbo, popping collarbones, a wildly indulgent lilac daydream. Beautiful things and people will always lend me a rush of delight. I love to swirl it around, drink it in, then let it pass into my own funny alchemy. Then we can turn it into magic.