Tiny wahine driving the monster SUV, you are a study in contrasts.

You drive the biggest vehicle in the parking lot. You wear the smallest jeans on the rack.

You picked the gold trim for your white Escalade but your rings are platinum, which looks like silver, so you clash.

But you don't clash. You make it work. The Swarovski crystals on your cell phone pull it all together.

You slide into the parking stall meant for shopping carts just to show you can. You roll your eyes at the driver in the tiny Toyota taking 15 moves back and forth, back and forth, trying to fit into a compact stall. If you no can, no even try — that's your credo.

You call your sweetheart while you're careening down H-1, cell phone in one hand, lip gloss wand in the other, and tell him to be careful out there.

You would kill anyone who dared to lay a finger on that pearly paint or shining metal, but you cover the back window with cheap stickers of turtles and flowers.

Your vanity license plate is an anagram that ends in the letter "z," which makes it plural. Or possessive. Not sure. You get annoyed when you see people trying to sound it out. Just drive already and never mind looking at me.

But you get even more annoyed when they don't notice. Tint the windows so no one can see but roll them down so they can look and admire.

Do you have to sit on a pillow or do your Sketchers espadrilles give you the extra height to reach the pedals?

Where do you park that thing at night? In a parking garage? How high would that ceiling have to be?

Does it rest outside your bedroom window under a makeshift garage with sagging metal poles, a puka puka tarp and bungee fasteners?

Are there places you never go because that EscaHummer doesn't fit? Like the parking at the hospital? Or the streets of Waikiki? Or the airport?

What does your man drive? Could there be a vehicle bigger? Would he drive something smaller? What does your car say about him?

But mostly, what we, your adoring public, your admiring fans, the baffled masses in our sandy, musty, fast-food-wrapper-filled late model compact cars with the pockmarks of door dings want to know is: How do you pay for that thing? What do you do on this little island where a studio apartment is affordable only if you share it with four friends, where breakfast cereal is a luxury item, where gas is the highest in the nation — how do you make that big shiny yacht of a car go?

Lee Cataluna's column runs Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays. Reach her at 535-8172 or lcataluna@honoluluadvertiser.com.