We’re thinking about getting a new car. We have no idea what we want. Well, Greg knows what he wants.
When I bought a new car several years ago, Greg left the decision completely up to me. I wanted something nice but not too fancy. At the time, I worked at the newspaper, and journalists do not drive fancy cars. It’s kind of a point of pride. Or we turn it into a point of pride because all we can afford is the 10-year-old Honda. When I got my new car, I parked far from the office because I didn’t want people to see me. A new car was embarrassing.
I wanted to give Greg that same experience of choosing his own car — no compromises. He lives at the opposite end of the spectrum though, working in a place where a BMW in the parking lot is the norm. Greg thinks a Tesla is the perfect car. Maybe it is. But sending our children to college would be pretty perfect too, right?
Greg started looking at Fiats and Mini Coopers, and I started to panic. My car is not all that practical with children. The back seat is roomy enough with just Eleanor, but it will be pretty cramped if we put another carseat in come December. I wanted Greg to look for something bigger. What if we take a road trip? Will we ever actually take road trips?
Of course, both of us also want a vehicle that is fast. And fuel efficient. And pretty. So we just need a pretty, fast, spacious, fuel-efficient station wagon or SUV. Have I mentioned that, despite all of my requirements, I don’t want to drive this child-hauling machine because I really like my not-so-practical car?
At this point, Greg surely thinks I’m crazy. I love my children dearly. I’m grateful to be a mom. But right now, I’m waddling around with an extra 20 pounds, and I’m sheathed in a sack, and I want to hang on to just one small shred of hipness. That’s why Greg should drive the mom car, at least until I quit wearing elastic- waste pants.