This is an opinion column

My late friend Ernie loved convertibles. He started with an MG, moved to a sporty Miata, then a Honda. It sits in his garage though he won’t be back to drive it. HIs sons don’t want to sell it, his wife says. It reminds them of their dad.

By the time he drove his last convertible, he was beginning to go gray. And so what? We seem to think that older people driving around with the top down are having a mid-life or even late-life crisis. But maybe they just like the feel of a fall breeze whipping through their hair. Maybe they like “convertible therapy,” a free way to blow your cares and worries away as you drive down the road, the radio music floating up into the air.

Who makes these rules about who can drive what kind of car and when it’s appropriate and when it’s not? Who says, as Facebook declares each day, what kinds of clothes are taboo for women over 50, or 60, or beyond? Who decides that older people need four door sedans in sedate colors? Advertisers do, but we can ignore them.

As an older driver, I’ve had two convertibles, both VWs, one right after the other. One was white with sporty red interior and one was dark green. Driving them made even a trip to run errands or go to the dentist an open-air adventure. I have been guilty of turning the air conditioner up to high and leaving the top down since I was driving under a blazing Alabama sun in July. No matter what the weather, once you have a convertible, you don’t want to put the top up unless you have to.

You have to when it rains. My first convertible lost the ability to put its own top up automatically and had to be helped along. The driver—most of the time me— had to park on the roadside, lift the roof up, giving it a boost then latching it down. By then, the driver was wet, or at least, damp.

I kept this car for years. Eventually, it was totaled when a van slammed into me at an intersection downtown. I wasn’t hurt, just shocked the way you are when these things happen. When the insurance money came through, I bought another VW convertible, this time one that raised and lowered its own roof with no human help needed.

As the car and I aged, we both needed new parts. Car parts were more expensive than the human kind, as it turned out. I turned the car in for a boring trade: a dull blue sedan that got me where I needed to go but without any joy on my part. It was just a means of transportation, a way to get from this place to that one. Though I have plenty of personal mileage, I may get another convertible before my driving days are over and someone takes the keys away.

When we see older drivers behind the wheel of a convertible, we shouldn’t think there’s something wrong with them. In fact, there’s something right. They know they can’t put the years in reverse the way they can change the gears. But they also know how to have a little more fun with whatever time is left.

Contact Beth Thames at [email protected]