I have a secret

My first car was awesome. V-8. Two seater. Muscle car. Vroom, vroom. I washed it until I was in danger of buffing off the paint (that I helped apply). I knew the compression ratio, the engine size, and the serial number engraved on the dash. It was awesome.

(a 1969 American Motors AMX, British racing green with white racing stripes).

And so, when I was 16, I took a vow: "I will never (ever) drive a four door."

Following the muscle car, I drove the wheels off a '95 Dodge Neon. Two doors. Sport model. Zippy. And cute.

I grew up and graduated college. Got a master's degree and a law degree. The Neon stuck with me. We battled tornadoes (really), ice storms, and blistering summers. We got along well until The Neon developed a wire shortage and made me late to work just one more time. "Get a new car," my boss told me.

I listened:

It was adorable. Most days it sported a giant daisy on the hood and pink daisies down the sides. Professional, it was not. But it made my heart smile.

This made my heart smile too:

(So does this):

(The Muscle Car still resides at my parents' house. RJ is smitten.)

I said goodbye to my Beetle Bug and hello to this: 

It has four doors. Four. It is sporty and zippy. But, the daisies didn't quite work. And the wind doesn't sing quite the same through the sunroof as it did in the drop top. But, it serves its purpose--and works much better for shuttling the occasional client. (One of my best lawyer tales is "How to Fit a Six Foot Client Plus Two Others into a VW Bug." It worked. Barely. They were surfers from California and thought the bug was cool. Thank goodness.). 

I've adapted to being a mom. Grown up. Moved on. I find myself wearing a teal velour sweatsuit in the carpool line. Pony tail. Walking shoes (not running, walking shoes). My Chanel heels are mourning in the darkness of my closet. 

And now, I find myself surfing the web late at night saying things like, "It has automatic doors!" And, "Ooooooh, look at the walk through seating!" "Captains chairs!" "And a rear view camera!"

I, the girl who swore to never drive a four door, confess. I have a secret. I am shopping for a minivan. It's a dark, dark day. The pigs' wings have blocked the sun as they fly in formation. I don't know if I'll make the change. Automatic doors are hot. Integrated window shades flip my switches. But it's a minivan. 

This makes my heart smile: 

Now, there are two. Four doors. Mom shoes. I've adapted. And it makes my heart smile. (So does a cool box console, optional trash can ring, and magic 40/60 flip fold seat).