This is my car. It is a minivan. And just so you know, I hate it. I've had it for three years now, long enough for the hate factor to wear off, long enough for the practical me to embrace it, and grow to love it. It has not happened. And you know what? I guess it's just not going to.
A little background about me. I have three children, two of which still ride in booster seats, and when I got the aforementioned minivan, all three were in car seats. At that time, I drove a wonderful, beautiful, powerful, extraordinary green Chevy Tahoe hand-me-down from my father. And yes, when I had my third child, logistically, it became a bit difficult to maneuver them in and out of it. But I managed.
Another thing about me is that I both work for my father and drive a company vehicle. Which means, that when I need a new vehicle, my father is the one who gets to pick out said vehicle. When the air conditioning went out on the Tahoe and the mileage climbed over 200,000, and I began to have other problems with it, we went car shopping. To the nearest minivan store. And I drove my first minivan off the lot. And cried. (To myself, not in front of the salesperson, or my father, who thought this was the greatest thing imaginable. "Look, a built in DVD, stow and go seating, dual power sliding doors, blahbady, blahbady, blah".) I thought time would heal my wounds though. I really did. I kept extolling the positives of the van, trying to tamp down the feelings of ancient, dried up, suburban mom jean wearing loser that the van brought up in me. It didn't work. The feelings were always there. They were there when Metallica's "Enter Sandman" came on Sirius and I cranked it up, then realized that everyone in the Target parking lot was staring at me in amazement, because apparently, women who drive minivans full of car seats don't listen to music anymore. They were there when my secretary, a good ten years older than myself, called it a "loser cruiser", and my employees delighted in putting a magnetic soccer ball on the back of it. And they are still there, some three years later, despite all my efforts. I just hate it. I hate seeing it in the parking lot and knowing it belongs to me, I hate the way I automatically age ten years every time I start it up. I hate SUV's and Honda Accords, and my neighbor's Suburban (she also has three kids, but doesn't have to flaunt it in front of everyone like my van does). I also hate that I hate it. What is wrong with me? Am I that self-absorbed? Do I really need validation from a vehicle to give me feelings of self-worth? Am I really so foolish that I overlook practical for beautiful?
The answer, my friends, is yes. I am.