Well, my soul is gone.
Today, the Pearlmans bought (egad) a minivan.
Fuck, I feel like Fonzi admitting he was wrrr … wrrr … wrrr …. wrrr-ooonnng. I can barely get the word off my lips—mmmiiinnnnn … mmmmiiiinnniiii ….. mmmm … mmmm.
Minivan
Fuck.
My wife, who I love more today than the day I married her, was sorta right: We have two kids, they have play dates, there was nowhere to stash a friend or two in the ol’ Mazdas. It makes sense, and I can’t argue the point. But, damn, I feel like the world’s biggest sellout. It’s a Town & Country, which sounds like a magazine for horse-riding gardeners. Even worse, it gets 16—sixteen!—miles per gallon. Ugh.
What sucks most is I’m the guy who stares down the people driving mini-vans; the one who leaves the notes under windshields saying, “If you’re gonna drive a gas-guzzling shit mobile, at least learn to park it.” Now, like Clark Kent in Superman II, I have lost my powers. What notes can I write? What individuality can I boast? I am yet another suburban pod person, driving a minivan, sending out holiday cards featuring photos of my kids, gossiping about the mother at my daughter’s school whose hair smells like peanuts. Soon enough, I’ll join the PTA and scream from the sidelines of my son’s youth soccer games.
Destiny—it’s a bitch.
