The Minivan Oath

(Encouraged by a dear cousin, I am blogging some of my writing. Enjoy it, sneer at it, cry or wink. There it is. Thanks Mel.)

I swore, although I know I am not really supposed to swear, that I would never drive a minivan. Ever. This statement issued forth from my humble but all-knowing, mature being at the age of 15ish. More than once. I must have felt like I had been wronged by the vehicle to make such an ultimatum. My best friend’s mom had one. A VW, I think. At the time I don’t recall feeling embarrassed or ashamed when I rode in it. But that was when we younger too. By the time I had reached full maturity and achieved all the education necessary regarding future vehicular operational decisions, my best friend’s mom had switched to a Taurus.

Another friend of mine, 2 grades ahead of me, had access to a VW as a junior in high school. I felt like such a part of something when I was invited to ride in Emily’s van to the beach or the movies. There was no a/c or cd player. Just manual windows rolled down to let the wind whip our hair around, several pairs of cheap sunglasses and lots pale skin in denim cutoffs (rolled up). I was never mortified, or scared of being seen. Why all this negativity against a metal, rolling box? Where did the horrendous stereotype come from that terrified me enough to pronounce death upon myself if I ever was the operator of what is now my most prized possession?

Before we went on a car trip a year ago, I decided I had to get my minivan’s carpets cleaned. My minivan is a lease. A lease! And yet I felt it had to be beautified before my children could spend another moment coloring, sneezing and smearing in it or on it. I go to the carwash place with my 5 year old and show the guy taking my order that I do not really car about the outside; it’s a minivan, right? I don’t really need my rims shinier than the sun. But the inside, the inside needs the works; scented carpet shampoo; all the leather caressed with one of those leather caressing wipes that makes the seats squeaky and slippery; the dashboard dust free; and my “came with the vehicle” stereo gleaming so I can read the LCD properly. So I am sitting in the waiting patio with my 5 year old and it has been over an hour. An hour! It’s a minivan! Another hour and $75 later as I squeak into my seat and merge onto the 5 South, I start thinking about how far I have come. I just spent more on my minivan’s carpets for my 4 children to destroy again after one visit to Happy Fun Burger Chicken Soda than I spend on my hair, nails and eyebrows, put together.

I don’t retract my oath. I just shift it, a little. I will never drive a minivan, unless I have 4 children in carseats and need extra cargo space and a automatic sliding doors with a sunroof and a DVD player. Amen.