If This Van's A Rockin

I hate the van.

My husband made me buy it. "It's so practical," he enthused. "We can haul the kids, the dog, the groceries. Think how great it will be to have all that space."

Funny thing is, apart from weekend trips to Home Depot (Why is it that every Saturday morning he discovers we don't have the right size 2x4 for the project du jour? And while we're on it, what does "the right" 2x4" mean? He's trekked off to the hardware store to buy 2x4's for the past 38 weeks running? Do 2x4's come in different sizes?) he's not the one who drives the van.

So there I am, left driving "big Bertha", like half the other middle-aged moms in my neighbourhood. (The younger moms drive SUV's - same size, way more cachet.)

Now you may be wondering why I hate the van so very much. Ahhh, let me count the ways.

Number one, I can't park it if my life depends on it. Case in point.

Last Thursday afternoon, I had to run to the plaza to do our banking and buy some milk. Apparently so did everyone else in the neighbourhood. By the time I got there, the only parking spot left was, no lie, between two Mini's.

I considered my options. Either let the bank foreclose on our mortgage and allow the children's bones to atrophy before my very eyes or put on a spectacle like nothing that's ever been seen before as I attempt to park the van in such a tight spot. Tough choice.

After some consideration (okay, and much honking by the cars behind me), I decided to park. With more thought than goes into the landing of the space shuttle, I sized up the space and planned my approach: swing it far out then tight turn to the left.

Now for some reason, I find it easier if I get my entire body involved in the parking of the van. Not only do I use my arms to turn the wheel, I find myself rocking and swaying in the direction I want the van to go. Before long, I looked like I was suffering from a severe neurological disorder as I tried to manoeuvre the van into place.

I broke into a sweat. And when I looked up for a moment, I noticed a small crowd had gathered, eager to see if I could actually pull this off. Certain I would ding one of the adjacent cars, I prayed the Mini owners weren't among the onlookers.

By some miracle bestowed upon me by the automobile gods, I was actually able to wedge the van between the two smaller cars. I glanced at it in triumph as I strode to the bank, only to be dismayed by what I saw. Which leads me to number two on my list of things I hate about the van.

The van is ugly.

If cars were people, the Mini's would be Audrey Hepburn and the van would be Roseanne Barr.

Number three, the van isn't cool.

How well I remember attending a function at the Toronto Board of Trade this past summer. It was a hot and steamy night with rain dripping down the meeting room windows. As things wrapped up, a new acquaintance, whom I was hoping to do business with, remarked that she wasn't looking forward to waiting for a bus in the torrential rain that was coming down outside. (Hint, hint, she wanted a ride.)

I offered to drive her, hoping against hope that she'd turn me down. She accepted. What could I do but usher her to the van, shift assorted gum wrappers, parking receipts and overdue library books from the passenger side to the back seat and invite her to come in. I got her home safe and sound but funnily enough, I've never heard from her since.

Number four, the van doesn't fit the image I have of myself at this stage in life.

Now I'm not meaning to be pretentious but at 46 and counting, I feel like I've moved past the family van stage. I want to be like my friend L. who drives a Porsche.

While the van screams, "soccer mom", her Porsche whispers "Cougar". While the van flatly says "everyday practical", her Porsche seductively teases "fun and adventure". And where the van practically shouts "middle aged", the Porsche boldly announces "vibrant and young".

Practical one that I am, I know the van isn't going anywhere soon. It works. It does let us haul around a lot of stuff. And I particularly like it when I've loaded it up with my children and a gaggle of their friends. There are advantages to being the silent driver and listening in on their tween conversations.

I would just ask that you keep an eye out for me. If you see a silver van cruising the parking lot, looking for somewhere to stop, save yourself and steer clear.

And if you see my van parked by the side of the road, rocking from side to side, please don't pass by with a wink and a nudge. It's unlikely that hubby and I are enjoying a tryst in the back. Some of the 2x4's have probably shifted and we can use a hand.

--Karen Hamilton lives in Toronto, Canada, where she publishes The Best Kept Secret, an e-newsletter and Web site for women over 40. Like the proverbial Seinfeld of the perimenopause set, Karen is fascinated with “the little things” of midlife. You can reach Karen via e-mail at karen@thebestkeptsecret.ca or visit her Web site at www.thebestkeptsecret.ca.