Over the years.
I am…whatever the term is for bigoted against people who drive minivans. I subscribe to the stereotypes about minivan owners. I will NOT try to get to know you, to find out how you tick, what your likes and dislikes are. Because in my head, I already know.
- You think Applebees is a good restaurant
- You have a lot of beige in your closet
- There is at least one ribbon-wrapped abomination of eucalyptus twigs and tiny straw hats on your wall (and the eucalyptus isn’t even real, you douche)
- There is at least one Nicholas Sparks novel on your bookshelf (I don’t care what gender you are)
I don’t care at all if you own a minivan and none of these things are true about you. That is the beauty of stereotypes. They save SO MUCH TIME.
I can see inside your skull. I know things about you that you don’t even know.
At some point you ceremoniously removed whatever sexy body parts you had left after you gave birth to the wretched spawn that led you down this dark path to begin with. You put these sexy body parts into a shoe box, alongside your lust for life, your Constitutional Right to see live music, and your ability to talk to persons under 19 without ANNOYING THE SHIT OUT OF THEM.
There it goes, all of that, into the shoebox.
Then you handed that shoebox to your children. They immediately dumped it out in the backyard because the box was perfect for their dead spider collection. Then a squirrel found the pile of your old cool sexiness and ate it.
That’s what you get. I have no sympathy. You did this to yourself.
But the point is, I always said that I would never own a minivan. Swore, really. Ranted, raved. Eyes bulged out. Fists pounded tables. Cocktail glasses were hoisted (for emphasis). Crossbows were loaded and fired recklessly into the air. Again, for emphasis. I postulated. I used all two of the German words that I know. I was like: nope, never, bitches.
Where does your deep bigotry against minivans come from, Rebecca, you amusingly warped individual? Well, like every tale of emotional distress, it begins in middle school.
This may shock you, dear readers, but I was (am?) Terminally Dweeby. So, after a long, stimulating day of being unable to look anyone in the eye, I had the daily joy of watching my mother careen up to the curb to pick me up in a boxy, electric blue Chevrolet Astro Minivan. In the days when my internal monologue read like a Judy Bloom novel, this wasn’t the touch of death, this was the sloppy, graphic, open-mouth FRENCH KISS OF DEATH. You know, like the sloppy, open-mouth French kiss THAT I WOULD NEVER GET in the coat room at the middle school dance that I would NEVER GET ASKED TO because who wants to date a girl whose mom drives an electric blue Chevrolet Astro Minivan?
No one, that’s who.
Anyway, I think you can tell where this little story is headed.
For some reason, my children seem to be thriving. They are getting bigger and bigger and it’s pretty annoying. They are at that irritating stage where they all need giant, clunky, complicated child safety seats. ALL OF THEM. They take up so much stupid space.
So me, here, right here right now, I am in a sort of Bermuda triangle of my current financial limitations, my need to keep my kids safe, and karma from all of the terrible things I have done. So many terrible things.
So I did it. I effing did it. I drank the Kool-aid. I am One Of You Now.
And, to be honest, it isn’t that bad. It has a lot of space for shenanigans. I could safely fit TWO ADDITIONAL humans into that automobile. Think of the mayhem seven people could incite. WILL INCITE.
Then there is the trunk space. Pounds of packing peanuts. Dozens of goat costumes. Probably three beehives. So. Many. Shenanigans.
I guess the point is, I have come to terms with it. I’m not going to join the International Mini-Van Owners Fan Club, but I will also only shudder a little when I walk into a parking lot and spot my new ride.
I think I’ll call it The Adventurepod.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, that sexy squirrel over there has something that belongs to me.