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There’s a lot of bad news people could give me:
- Your house burned to the ground so you’ll never get to actually
order from the 785 catalogs you’ve been stock-piling since 1972;
- You need gall bladder surgery and the only one available to perform
it is a small animal veterinarian with cataracts;
- Diet Coke is bad for your health;
- The world will explode in 30 days.
That’s some serious bad news.
But nothing, nothing strikes doom, dread, and white-knuckled fear into
my heart more terrifyingly than the simple phrase, “Lindsey, you really
need a minivan.”
“EEEIIIYYY!”
A minivan?
“You do. You need a minivan.”
Technically, perhaps. Then again, technically speaking,
I also need more sleep, more fiber, liposuction and a facial peel.
But that doesn’t mean that I’m going to get any of them.
“What’s the big deal about getting a minivan?”
“I’m not a minivan person,” I said.
“That’s what you used to say about Kraft Macaroni and Cheese,
children’s television programs involving large, yellow birds, McDonald’s
Happy Meals, and trips to places of infernal purgatory, like Toys R Us
and Chuck E. Cheese.”
Good point.
“But this is different,” I offered.
“How?”
“I have to draw the line somewhere. I have to stand for
my principles. I have to fight off the ravages of this pernicious
middle-aged, suburbanite culture.”
In other words, I want a Ferrari. Red. With a pack of semi-attired
Chippendales in the back seat.
“With all those Chippendales, where would you put the diaper bag?”
my pushy friend asked, with all the softness, the tenderness, the compassion
of, say, Judge Judy.
“Uh…”
“And the kids?”
“Well…”
“And the tons and tons of jumbo-economy-sized packages of toilet paper
and Wonder bread that you just picked up at Costco?”
“I…”
“And the two dogs, the dog food, and…”
“ENOUGH!” I cried.
Minivans, the Final Frontier.
Yes, minivans are incredibly practical. Yes, some of my
very best friends and relatives drive minivans. Yes, technically,
I need a minivan.
But is it not enough that I don’t fit into my old jeans?! Is
it not enough that the clerk at Safeway called me—GULP—“ma’am?” Is
it not enough that, these days, a wild, out-of-control party night for
me might be one during which I stay up to watch the weather?
Oh sure, I have a sport utility vehicle, you know, for all the times
I go 4-wheel driving in the Himalayas. Oh sure, I recognize that
the line between SUVs and minivans is increasingly blurred.
It’s just that I can’t, I won’t, make that Final Step.
Not because I fear I’ll be fully, completely middle-aged and suburbanized.
But because I suspect I already am…
Copyright 2001 by Lindsey Stokes
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