Ain’t no Tahoe high enough, but there is a minivan low enough

I have a gas guzzling confession to make.  I have fallen in love with very large vehicles.  The monstrous type of vehicles that require carabiners, harnesses, 200 feet of rope, a helmet, and climbing shoes in order to enter.  Or maybe just a running board.  My point is this…I love climbing into my mode of transportation.

What? you ask.  I thought you drove a fuddy duddy minivan.  Oh, I do, I do.  I drive a minivan in which I eat donuts at red lights and shamelessly do the fast food restaurant drive-thru loop more often than you need to know.  However, after some lady was more concerned with adjusting her contact lens on a recent rainy afternoon than my ‘patiently waiting for the car in front of me to take a left turn’ motionless minivan ass, I got to experience life in a massive Chevy Tahoe for a week while my banged up MomCar was getting her ass and sundry parts patched at the mechanic shop.  And, I became spoiled riding miles high above the pavement.

I have always driven compact rinky-dink cars.  That was all I could ever afford and all I really needed.  For years, it was only Gav and me milling about town, thus clown cars served us just fine.  Then, the tag team trio of babies with their extra wide car seats hit the scene.  A minivan seemed to be the logical move.

Oh, but tantalizing Tahoe, you.  Meowy meow.  Step on up, ladies and gentlemen, and enjoy life in the clouds.

When beginning my rental experience, I assumed that I would get a similar minivan.  Yet, none were to be found when I popped up at the rental agency without calling ahead.  (i know nothing about the rules of extended car repair and dealing with other people’s insurance companies and huh? i get a better rental car than my actual car all week for free?  hell yeah.  rearend me again next week, lady with a hair on her contact lens.)  I had seen the two giant SUVs parked on the front lawn when I entered the rental company, walked up to the front desk, and told them, “Hi.  I’m here for a rental.”  Duh.  I don’t get out much.  I also don’t get rearended much, so I was unaware of the post-rearending protocol.  After some phone calling back and forth with the insurance company and the repair shop, irritated rental dude walked me out to the front lawn and handed me the keys to one of those giant SUVs.  “Will this do?”  “Umm, suuuuure,” as I do some quick stretching before climbing my way into the driver’s seat.  “Okaygreatbye,” and he marched away.

Thus began my week of high riding.  Oh, I know.  The Tahoe’s not super gigantor like a Hummer or anything of the sort.  But, compared to the low riding I’d been doing in the minivan, I felt like Billy Bob Badass up there and contemplated mounting an empty gun rack on the back window.  Seriously.  Having to CLIMB into your vehicle?  Bad.  Ass.  Looking down on neighboring cars at red lights?  Bad.  Ass.  Arriving at your destination and sliding out of your vehicle?  Bad.  A…  Okay, that part was not so much bad ass, but I did enjoy squealing an exaggerated “Weeeeeeeee!”  every time I exited the vehicle in a sliding motion.

I used to see these teeny tiny moms all driving brand spankin’ new, huge Suburbans and Hummers at Gav’s previous school.  I’d roll my eyes at them in carpool each day, me down on the ground in my very used Dodge Neon.  “God, what is she?  Forty pounds soaking wet?  How do her feet reach the pedals?  Why the upper class monster truck parade?”  Now, I get it.  They compensated their anorexia with the badass feeling of driving a mammoth vehicle.

Alas, all good things must come to an end.  The shop called a week later with the news that my minivan ass was back in working order.  So, I bid the Badass Tahoe adieu and crawled back in the family lowrider.  I feel like Wilma Flintstone scooting around on my butt now.  And, so very far from badassness.

I leave you today with your grandma’s shoe.