My First Mini-Van
Liberty Bradford
The time had come. My beloved VW Passat, the car I’d bought with the last vestiges of my trust fund, was dead. After nine years, her charming Windsor Blue exterior (with just a hint of eggplant) belied the fact that she was no longer a smooth ride. And with two kids, a persistent influx of visiting relatives to ferry about, not to mention play dates, I simply needed a bigger vehicle.
My husband released his inner price-gouger along with our neighbor who worked for a dealership and trawled for a screamin’ deal to meet our family-of-four-plus needs. He returned with a sardonic glint in his Irish eyes.
“You’re getting a mini-van.” I gasped. No! Never! Mini-vans are just so… Un-sexy. Boorishly maternal. Fat. Not that the Passat was all that cool, but getting a mini-van felt akin to a form of female castration. A talisman that my disco shoes would be hung up forever. Let’s slap on
My husband released his inner price-gouger along with our neighbor who worked for a dealership and trawled for a screamin’ deal to meet our family-of-four-plus needs. He returned with a sardonic glint in his Irish eyes.
“You’re getting a mini-van.” I gasped. No! Never! Mini-vans are just so… Un-sexy. Boorishly maternal. Fat. Not that the Passat was all that cool, but getting a mini-van felt akin to a form of female castration. A talisman that my disco shoes would be hung up forever. Let’s slap on
