Miata is always the answer… if the question is 'who’s the virgin at Cars & Coffee?

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So you drive a Miata? Congratulations, my daughter’s Barbie wanna-be Corvette has more presence than that two-door tampon you call a car. Let me pull out the brochure real quick… oh wait, I mean the back of a Hot Wheels package.

181 horsepower? That’s adorable. A Honda Odyssey—yes, the minivan hauling orange slices and soccer gear—has more testosterone than your pride and joy. And the specs? 0–60 in 5.7 seconds—perfect for when you’re drag racing retirement scooters through the Target aisles. Top speed: 135 mph. Congrats, your car maxes out at the same pace as your mom’s Prius—where you still live rent-free. How’s that going for you? Spoiler: you’re not getting laid.

And let’s be honest—when you roll up to Cars & Coffee on Saturdays, you don’t park next to the Porsches, Lambos, or GT-Rs. No, you creep off to the far lot like the ugly cousin at a family wedding. Don’t worry, I’d hide too.

I know what you’re thinking: “What does this Porsche girl know? She only likes German engineering.” Yeah, no shit. I prefer driving something that isn’t outperformed by my Dyson vacuum. But don’t get it twisted—I can respect a real JDM legend. RX-7? Supra? Skyline? Absolutely. But a Miata? That’s not a car, that’s the official vehicle of failed Tinder dates, broke college “track gods,” and dudes who confuse heel-toe downshifting with personality.

So go ahead—keep telling yourself “Miata is always the answer.” The only question it’s answering is: “Which car guarantees I’ll die alone?”