Downtown Thomasville, Georgia, is a dreamy historic village with brick streets and family-owned businesses operating from storefronts circa early 20th century. A recent Saturday monthly sidewalk sale on Broad Street had attracted a pleasant society strolling under lush trees and eating ice cream cones as temperatures hovered in the mid-70s beneath a satin blue sky.

Not exactly textbook conditions for an existential crisis.

My Guards Red 1994 968 Cabriolet with cashmere interior had been parked in Broad Street's row of spaces — its top down in a weekender celebration of classic Porsche splendor. We had returned from a tour of nearby historic Pebble Hill Planation, then visited the Sweet Grass Dairy cheese shop and restaurant for a late lunch at the bar.

Off the stools and out on Broad Street, feeling charmed and delighted as we approached the 968, I noticed a slip of paper on the windshield. Bummer: a parking ticket.

Turned out, it was only shaped like a ticket. Instead, there was a hand-written note on a Sheraton Hotel pad.

"Hi Porsche owner," the note read. "If you think about selling your 968 just pitch me a mail. I may be interested. I am in town only today. Will meet a guy named Emory tonight and you can get a hold of him at [phone number]." He signed it Ralf with a German email address to reach him.

I've owned the 968 for about three years and felt incessantly committed to loving stewardship — despite some $6,000 in routine preventative maintenance (prior, the car had been a seven-year garage queen).

In fact, just a few days before I had installed new high-performance tires, new alternator, a bit of replacement wiring and relented to powder coating the wheels after the previous owner's silver paint chipped when the robo-arm on the electric tire changer applied its rotational muscle.

Balance due: $2,641.23.

For anyone who has owned a vintage Porsche, you understand that frequent check-writing is the pain of your passion (suddenly this all sounds uncomfortably masochistic). The upside is the 968 drives strong, handles amazing on its autocross suspension and exudes glamour derived from its Italian styling cues and American rarity (only about 2,200 reached the U.S.).

Like many of you, I'm a serial sports car owner, although the 968 is my first Porsche. I liken Porsche ownership to living in San Francisco. When we lived there and strangers asked our hometown, mention San Francisco and you always got a smile and rise that made you feel special — as opposed to Spring Hill, Florida, where we once lived, which prompted a gaze of blank stupor.

"So what kind of car is that? A Porsche? Why I've never seen one of those. It's beautiful." Yes, the envy and admiration are all mine. (OK, what's wrong with that?)

Now Ralf was tempting me to part with a measure of my identity that sets us Porsche owners apart, and I have to admit I was getting a bit anxious over the idea. I stashed his note in my pocket, and during the drive home we discussed the possibility. Give and take, pros and cons, costs both financial and emotional versus the pride and hedonism of owning a Guards Red 968 Cabriolet.

Back home, I Googled some other imprudent cars I've thought of owning — notably a vintage Land Rover (very Thomasville). More wine on the back porch and more conversation.

We finally decided to ask a Ralf for a ludicrously exorbitant price. Let fate decide.

Typing the email to Ralf, I experienced a dim nausea that I'll call a rancid mélange of uncertainty and regret. I moused over the "send button," clicked it, and I felt diminished and disappointed in myself.

Auspiciously, fate looked upon us with her maternal wisdom. I never heard back from Ralf.

Now, I am whole again. What a relief.