Yo, Thief of Joy! Thy Name is Jaguar

You know that awesome saying from the great philosopher, Pinterest? The one that goes: "Comparison is the Thief of Joy"? Yeah. Well it totally is.

The other day my kid showed me a picture of my dream car: a new F-type Jaguar. I would also be happy with a G, H, or I-type, but the F-type is the bomb dot org. We sat there drooling over its sleek lines and rain-sensing windshield wipers. Its limited slip differential and Phosphor Blue halo illumination with mood lighting. And I really like the spokey tire thingies that turn all silvery when you drive real fast.

It was a fun bonding moment with my boy. He knows I care about him and his interests, and I know he cares about me and mine. The only problem is . . . now I hate my van. 

I used to drive a fairly boss car. It was my work car: a blue Ford Taurus, complete with automatic everything and built-in car phone. Dudes. This was before the advent of cell phones. I was Coolness on Toast.

But then we started having kids, and frankly the daily schlepping-of-the-kids-in-and-out-of-their-car-seats-whilst-hunched-over was breaking my back and wearing on my mom-patience. So we caved in and bought me a M.A.V. — also known as a Mommy Assault Vehicle. Ever driven one? They're formidable in their convenience. You can load up an entire neighborhood of little people and still fill it to the brim with luggage, bicycles, soccer paraphernalia, lost pets, bake sale foods, thrift store stuff, three separate retainers that your kid keeps losing and you keep replacing, and the scent of chocolate chip-dipped gym socks. It's a wonder. 

So why would I want the Jaguar instead?

Did you read that paragraph above?

My minivan is a precision remover of chickiebabe-ness. Stop looking at me like that. My age has nothing to do with it. It's the van. I've been driving one for so long my thighs have a permanent faux-velvet seat-cover texture to them. It's even affecting my sense of style. I actually wore a pair of 99-cent plaid pajama bottoms to the gym the other day for my weekly stationary bicycle spin. Do you know what happens to the seat of 99-cent cotton PJ bottoms after you've been sweating in them for an hour? Can you then imagine what you look like trying to scamper back to your dork-M.A.V. without giving anyone a view of said seat? And wanting to scream, "It's just sweat! I swear!"

Yeah. It's all about the minivan. If I had a new F-type Jaguar, all of my problems would be over. 

Well, in the meantime maybe I can pay my kids to stick their heads out the windows while we're driving and scream Jaguar's tagline for it's F-type, "IT'S YOUR TURN TO DISCOVER!!" Who knows? Maybe I'll get a free car out of it. Or a free ticket from the local police.