In my defense, I'll assert that for two years, I had lived in a hut with a thatched roof on the arid edge of the Sahel. I spent another in an isolated desert expanse that was outright hostile to all life. I endured temperature extremes so harsh that they would invalidate the warranty on your computer. I lived on about $45 of food a month, and had close encounters with diseases that would give a forensic pathologist the shakes. Sickness and poor nutrition left me so physically wasted that my girlfriend at the time once told me to gain 10 pounds or forget about sex. A longtime vegetarian, I killed chickens with my bare hands. And I'm sparing you the truly awful details.

Keep all of that in mind when I tell you that I came home from the toughest job I had ever loved and got immediately behind the wheel of a bright red 1982 Porsche 924 Turbo and drove off with the tires screaming. Karmically speaking, I felt I had enough points stored up to buzz around in the kind of sports car typically owned by very shallow and evil people, without seriously endangering my immortal soul. Really, the decision wasn't even that esoteric: it was my dad's old car, and he said the seats were killing his back, and that seemed like the irresistable hand of fate to me. I took it out for a test drive, and that basically was that.

It didn't feel like temptation. It felt like I could drive 65 miles/hour in third gear, if I wanted to, or go around tight curves with such idiotic speed that everything that wasn't held down, including unwitting passengers, would fly around the inside of the car. It felt like stomping on the accelerator in the merging lane of the freeway entrance and feeling the turbo kick in with a sudden jolt that made the muscles on my neck stick out. Do any of those sensations -- tensing, pressing ahead, wriggling around -- sound like temptation? Of course not.

Besides, I rationalized desperately, this may help temper my Pride. I was clearly hung up about the way the car looked, and worried people would assume I was an asshole for driving it. So the best way to get over that pathological hyper-concern about appearances was obviously to pop the sunroof and drive off in the flaming red testosterone-fueled imagemobile. Exposing my soul to this danger seemed to hold a promise of purification, a possibility of rising to a new level of growth.

Three years later, the long road test of the soul is over. I have slid down the inner lines of the nastiest curves of countless rural Virginia roads, fighting the urge to brake and bail out. I have battled the mean and twisted streets of our nation's capitol, braved the daily automotive duel that has reduced many a tourist to impotent tears. I have traversed wind and rain, snow and mud. At times, I was a conscientious and helpful driver, determined to let the world know that I was better than the usual shallow and evil Porsche owner. At times, overwhelmed with turbo might, I dominated the road and all life upon it.

But in the city, the car became progressively more of a burden. It wanted to be on the open road, and became sulky when forced to drive through the maze of endless stop signs around Georgetown. Its un-powered steering, delightfully solid for careening around curves, was a true annoyance for parallel parking. Then in the span of a few months, my girlfriend's car was first broken into, then stolen, and the threat of theft made the choice of Porsche parking locations into a high-stakes game of chance. Finally, after a series of not-so-very inexpensive repairs, I woke up from my reverie.

In the end, it was the purifying fire of the repair bills that finally quenched my desire to possess such power. Having made the decision to sell it, I find myself enjoying the car again as I did when I first owned it -- as something temporary, to be savored but soon surrendered. Coming back from a meeting with clients in Rockville last week, I found myself driving with uncharacteristic death-defying zest. This fancy-shmancy car had become a drag when Covetousness convinced me that it was something to be jealously guarded and protected. I had been fully ensnared in its temptations, and willing to sacrifice to buy the essential potions and elixirs to keep it pliant to my wishes. But it asked too much, and I found I still had enough soul intact to resist its charms. Ducking through traffic on my way back into Washinton, I watched us roll back into the safe side of the shady line separating sweet temptation from sore fixation.

It is a terrifying and difficult spiritual test, but I recommend it to anyone. You experience harrowing turns, sudden stops and starts, and seamy companions who get in your car at gas stations and have sex with you in hotels along the way. If you think your soul is ready for the wicked allure of the kick-ass red, 5-speed 1982 Porsche 924 Turbo, with a sunroof, AM/FM/cassette, and power mirrors and windows, for only $2500 or best offer, then we need to talk. It's your turn to be tested.