After our second child was born, my husband and I had to make the very painful decision to buy a minivan. Painful for me, not so much him, being that his middle name is “Practical.” Nine months of arguing later, I caved in a weak moment. My first ever identity crisis quickly followed. Roll your eyes at me if you must, but there was a point in my life that I did think I was better than the minivan.
At first I thought to myself, “Ok Jill, you don’t have to actually see what you look like driving it, so just pretend you’re not.” I would purposely avoid driving by buildings with big windows for fear that I would get a glimpse of myself. I would drive home from work with the sunroof and windows open, Shaggy blaring on the radio, in complete denial, trying to convince myself that I wasn’t as shallow as I apparently am.
Two weeks later, I hit a cart coral in the Target parking lot and came home with a sob story of how the van was just “too big for me” and how the state should require the passing of a special driver’s license test prior to allowing you to drive one.
My husband bought it, bless his heart, and then I got the car.
And all the world seemed right again.