I wrote this post in November 2016. It has taken me this long to grow the cojones to share it with the world.  

Something in me had curled up and died.  I cried. Sobbed. Whined.  Tried to convince Keith it couldn’t be true.  I gave dirty, piercing, “don’t even go there” looks to anyone who tried to convince me I needed to be “practical” and embrace it.

I finally acquiesced and told Keith “Just go do it without me,” (code for this way I can blame you).  I just couldn’t get myself to limp along with him.  Like the dutiful, practical, sound minded man he is (God, isn’t that annoying?), Keith set forth for the dealership to purchase our first mini-van.  But in a beautiful twist of fate, Keith’s favorite car salesman wasn’t there!  This was a sign…. It was a real sign and had nothing to do with the pregnancy hormones coursing through my veins, batting my emotions around like a pinball.  I was not destined for a life of middle-age-minivan- monotony after all.  When Keith arrived home, I declared it was over.  Instead of the retched box on wheels, we would simply increase the size of our SUV from big and affordable to voracious gas guzzler.   Think Yukon, Tahoe…. Yes!

I began hunting for our next vehicle with a insatiable appetite.  Anything to erase the foul taste of the McMinivan from my mouth.  And, I was practical!  Really!  I found a used Yukon in our price range.  So what, it was white (Yuck to white vehicles, but a white SUV beats a black middle-age-mobile any day).  “Meet me at the dealership after work,” I pleaded with Keith.  I dragged our oldest with me, packed her a dinner, and stuck our son with a babysitter.  After all, this was urgent! Our new- car- to -be!  What if some sleaze bought it out from under us????  As I edged out of the garage in my beloved but teeny Volvo with my huge belly steering the wheel, the six-year-old started shrieking…. “
Thunder! Lightening! Turn around!!!!”  Instead, I blasted Rhianna for white noise and pretended I heard nothing. Storms never last long… Right?

The dealer couldn’t wait to show us the SUV and pour us a cocktail of stories based on other classy broads who are mini-vans haters.  His wife, for instance, drove a Mercedes SUV, he said.  Minivans are ugly, he said.  They aren’t luxurious, he said.  I nodded along like a diligent child as the dealer kept spitting out comments, ignoring the fact that we were all sopping up rain in a torrential downpour.   “See,” I told Keith as we dripped all over the inside of the gargantuan vehicle.  We only had one umbrella, and of course, the pregnant woman had dibs.

Meanwhile, our sensitive daughter, which is a nice way of saying she’s difficult, anxiety ridden, and drives us nuts, was cowering in the back of the Tahoe to avoid the crashing lightening. Her panic did not stop her from a refrain of “I’m soooooooo bored” followed by “When can we goooooooo?”  Still, none of this interfered with my quest.  We would take it for a test drive!  Yes, we would!  The fact that I was nine and half months pregnant and 5’1 would not deter me from hiking myself up into the beast.   Though I really needed a phone book to see over the steering wheel, I convinced Keith we were perfectly safe, and we set off.  Our child was petrified and quivering, but safely strapped into her booster (good parenting).  I could easily test the state of the art sound system to drown her out again.

The test drive was uneventful.  I struggled just a smidge to park it back in the lot, but “Nothing I couldn’t get the hang of with practice,” I assured Keith.  We poked around in the back some more, and I tried not to lunge for Keith’s throat with my unkempt nails when he said methodically, “There’s not enough storage, honey.  A mini-van is practical.”   As I mustered up something evil to say in response, our daughter conveniently tried to exit the SUV through the back. She fell in slowmo and conveniently cut up both knees with ample, dramatic crying.  I was fiercely hangry and went to scream “Suck it up!,” but instead channeled my inner Mother Theresa and found the strength to  spew some soothing clucks while Keith scrounged around for Band-Aids.  Alas, my hot date with the SUV was ruined.

The next few days Keith and I volleyed back and forth.  He thought the car was overpriced (code for Get the fing mini-van).  I convinced him it was a good, no great deal, and most importantly, it would make his fetching wife content, momentarily at least.   With a sigh, Keith picked up the phone to call the dealer.  This was it!  No minivan for me, suckers!  As Keith nodded calmly along with the voice at the other end, something was amiss.  I could feel it like the eight pound kiddo kicking the interior of my belly.  Keith softly replaced the receiver in an attempt to soften my hormonal explosion.  “Honey, it sold.”

No.  The soul crusher disguised as a van would not win this one.  To preserve any crumb of self-esteem I still had left, I needed to imagine myself as a semi-hot MILF of three who blasts gangster rap (okay sometimes Kidz Bop) in her Ray-Bans.  I could NOT embrace what the minivan symbolizes: a 40 year old mom-jean wearing, muffin top bulging, saggy suburbanite whose naughty thrill for the day is an almond milk latte. Not sexy. Not beautiful. Not glorified in American culture. Not special. Just a mom.

I needed an Escalade.