Yahoo Lifestyle 
The ultimate day out for boys and their toys
He's not just Fitzy and Wippa's newsreader or a panelist for The Morning Show, FOX Sports, and the ABC – Matt de Groot is also Be's newest columnist. He'll be taking us on a deep dive into the world of dating and relationships... from a guy's perspective.
For three glorious days I got to call a $350,000 supercar my own - and my fiancée couldn’t have hated it more.
It was a McLaren 570S, the sexiest of all supercars… but this meant absolutely nothing to her.
It looked like a weapon and went like a beast: 0-100 is 3.2 seconds, an engine that sounded like a lion roaring, and a body that rivaled a Victoria’s Secret model.
And yet, to my non-car-loving other-half, it was a noisy, bumpy, admittedly good looking but obscene extravagance.
There are few greater distinctions between men and women than cars, and that has never been clearer than during these three days. Not all girls feel this way, but many.
From the moment I picked up the McLaren I was outside of my mind; lil’ ol’ me, in a car I’d only ever dreamed of, rolling around the city streets, stopping at red lights, parking in my car park, taking to it cricket, running errands, whatever. It was mine and it was surreal.
As I drove around town guys would stop and point, roll down their windows, some would pull out their phone and take photos, others wanted to talk and others just gawk.
I had to schedule in with mates when I’d come around to see them, so they could ride with me.
I even took my nephew to his school dance, and dozens of young lads were out front simply dabbing at the car (apparently that is how kids cheer nowadays).
I felt like a genuine rock star.
But, for my fiancée, there was no such celebration of the car.
For her, a car should do three things: look nice, get you to where you need to go, and carry what /who you need it to carry.
The fact you had to lift heavy doors UP not OUT was apparently confusing (it’s not, it’s awesome). She also didn’t understand why the boot was in the front and the size of an esky, nor why the seats were so low…
And mostly, why I felt the need to rampantly – but legally – accelerate from one red light to the next.
“This is pure performance”, I would tell her. “The pinnacle of human vehicular innovation.” People go through their whole life fantasizing about cars like this, and here she was lucky enough to be sitting in one... For THREE WHOLE DAYS.
She didn’t share my enthusiasm.
And it wasn’t just her; at one stage a mate and I were driving around a pedestrian heavy street, windows down and engine purring (so we could be seen by as many people as possible), confident we’d be celebrated as heroes.
We got to one zebra crossing and three girls in their mid-20s walked past. We sat up a little straighter, and prepared for the inevitable moment where they saw these two obviously very successful and impressive young men…
Not a look. Not a single look, glance or care from any one of them.
If anything we were probably further back in their minds, because we were ‘those guys’ who just roll up and down streets in their car thinking it’s the key to a girl’s romantic heart.
Or we were drug dealers.
It was at that moment I conceded there are just some things guys care about and just some things girls care about.
At $350,000 the McLaren was everything I could have hoped it would be. I was in both love and lust and never tired of how others would look at me with a combination of jealousy, admiration and longing.
Handing it back was comparable, if not worse than handing back your first-born (I presume).
But I also couldn’t reasonably deny her claims that her average-bloody-run-of-the-mill hatchback had more seats, more storage, and technically got us to the same place, in roughly the same amount of time.
We agreed that simply boys love their toys and this was the grandest toy of them all, we agreed that she doesn’t need to share this passion, and best of all we agreed that she would buy me one for Christmas… And I just can’t wait for that.
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