Saving My Sanity for Posterity: Mini No More

So, after years of defending the minivan in general and bashing my minivan in specific, I finally decided it was time to call it quits.

My van, for those of you who don't obsess over my car havingness, was a disaster. A giant money pit of doom. The devil's own vehicular torture chamber.

The brakes were forever going bad, even just weeks after having them worked on. I had replaced the air conditioning compressor to make the car run but, clearly, not to make the air conditioner work, since it didn't. I replaced the transmission. I had the triad lights of doom on my dash that no one could explain to me. The VCR didn't work. It had a VCR. It revved funny when you were idling and sometimes randomly died in traffic.

I hated it and lived in fear of it. Now I live in pity of whatever idiot picked that sucker up at auction.

I don't know what was wrong with it, maybe it was flooded (that was the best theory any of us ever came up with). Maybe it was haunted. Or possessed. Or maybe it was already dead but zombiefied. That would have explained some stuff.

In any case, it had to go. And despite my epic love of the infinite hauling capacity of the minivan and all the mommy-specific bells and whistles, I really wanted something else. Something fun. Something that didn't scream soccer mom for all the world.

My reasoning was as follows: my whole life I have endeavored to make the most responsible decision. Never the one that was right for me, or the one that I really wanted, but the most responsible decision. (My college major excluded. Although to my credit, the English Literature department lied to me with their fancy-schmancy list of "Things You can do with an English Degree. Strangely, spend the rest of your life struggling to pay your student loans did not make the list.) And every one of those stupidly responsible decisions screwed me. Every stinkin' one.

I'm done with it. By "it" I mean sacrificing in the name of some bizarre self-defined sense of responsibility. I'll still be responsible because, well, parenthood sort of lends itself that way. But I'll also be true to myself.

Step 1: Red. Jeep.

Oh yes, she is. I've been driving said Jeep of happiness for a little over a month. And let me tell you what... I have never been more in love.

Please allow me to wax rhapsodic: I like to drive. I love to drive. I will drive anywhere, anytime for any reason. Driving is my peace, my joy, my complete and utter separation from the rest of the world. Driving, for me, is like meditation but without all the ohming.

Cars today are all about minimizing the experience of driving. It's all designed to make you feel like you are not driving. Like you are in point of fact, sitting in your living room, watching a really boring show about the road. Everything is there to minimize road noise, even out the ride and generally make you forget entirely that you are driving. I wonder if this contributes to people falling asleep at the wheel.

In any case, my Jeep, my pretty little lady, does not do that. I can hear the road. I can feel the road. I bounce a little when I go over bumps. And it's trail rated, so I don't feel all guilty and panicky when it bounces. It is heaven.

I am vair happy, is what I'm trying to say.