My car suits me just fine.

Broken, banged up, miles high, smelly old mini van. Have you seen that video “mom my ride?” My car has been Mommed. In some ways it is liberating. I don’t have to worry about a car wash. My carpet is so dirty that I can go months without a vacuum and no one would know the difference. But then other times it’s just gross, like this week when a lot of water leaked and the whole car reeked like something rotten.

When I was just about to get my license, my dad came home with a brand new black rag top Jeep Wrangler. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. (Meaning, my good father—how could he know my exact wishes?) (I don’t remember, dad, did we beg or what?) When we stopped in our neighbor’s driveway, he came out for his ride to school and he promptly dropped his backpack and stopped in his tracks, mouth open and gaping. Right there it solidified in my teenage mind that this car was perfection.

It proved its worth in my mind many times. When I was 17, I realized its worth in the form of how many boys I met through it. I did have a partner in boy catching crime by the name of Wendy. One day we were on the bored side and I mentioned that driving through the streets near my house I had noticed another Jeep, with the license plate that was something like: MUDNSRF and that the driver was a cute boy. (That was our consistent description of attractive males: cute boy.) So we hopped in my Jeep and started driving. We found MUDNSRF outside a house that was on a cul-de-sac and while we tried to decide what we were going to do about our find, I drove around and around and around the cul-de-sac and soon we didn’t have to do much because there were two cute boys staring out the window. With another turn around the circle they were hopping into MUDNSRF without even opening the doors—the passenger was standing on his seat, leaning over the roll bar. I drove right up the driveway to get a better look and our headlights said hello to each other. I backed up out of the driveway and up the street with MUDNSRF following, our headlights just a few feet away from each other. It was like a little car dance. Then we drove around the cul-de-sac chasing each other in circles, up and over the hilly streets and around until we finally stopped and got out and laughed together and started talking like we were old friends.

There was another time that Wendy and I had an errand to run for Prom. We headed up to the mall in my Jeep and while we were on the freeway we noticed that we had some admirers. A little white car loaded with four cute boys and they were staying along-side us as we drove, smiling at us. Suddenly the boy on the passenger side leaned precariously out his window, arms outstretched with a piece of paper in his hand. The speed limit was 65 mph, so I’m sure we were going at least that fast as the cars got close enough that I could reach the paper as I was driving. (Please do not try this at home. It was scary even for me and I have no fear.) It was their names and a phone number to call. (Which we did on a different occasion which is another story all together.)

I loved that Jeep and was sad to leave it behind when I got married and had to fend for myself. (Did that sound spoiled?) I would have no use for such a vehicle now. No, what I need is what I have. A car that shouts: I’m not available, man. I’m a mom, and I’m not just whistling Dixie—this mini van is packed FULL! That’s right. I’m a happily married family woman with smelly carpet in her vehicle.
No, I don’t need a new fancy car to be happy.

But what I COULD use is a little chocolate and some alone time.