Shortly after my husband turned 40 he traded in his fancy car for an even fancier, and more importantly, faster car.
Of-course those who know my husband will say that he probably wouldn’t trade me in for a 25-year-old blond. He would trade me in for a 25-year-old brunette.
But that’s a topic for another time.
He loves his car. It is a beautiful Porsche Panamera Turbo and it is very fast. It can go from 0 to 60mph in less than four seconds.
I know this because he talks about cars incessantly. And as a testament to how good a wife I am (how do you make a coughing sound with text?), I listen.
I know more about cars than I care to. I can identify a Porsche S at first glance, love the idea of a Tesla, though I don’t like the look of it much and think it’s too expensive, and I will often comment on the fabulous way a Carrera 4S seems to glide on the road.
So, of-course, as the owner of a fancy fast car, my husband exhibits a lot of the behaviours we all see and hate. For example, he parks at the very far end of a parking lot, often takes up two spaces and refuses to let the kids eat certain snacks in the car.
He also likes to “intimidate” drivers on the highway. He will tailgate a slow driver in the fast lane, which in highway language translates into “get out of my way!”
He says most people will oblige. They see the Porsche behind them and they know what to do.
There is, however, one category of drivers who will not: men in minivans.
Men in minivans will happily drive at their car’s maximum speed of 60 mph, in the passing lane, and will not move over.
I think I know why:
These men have given up a lot. They have given up their dignity, their self-respect and let’s face it some of their manhood for convenience and practicality.
All this sacrifice so they can drive around in a box on wheels that can fit bicycles, scooters, skateboards, balls (by that I mean mainly baseballs, footballs and soccer balls) and many many children sitting in the back watching DVDs and snacking on sticky foods and drinks.
They see my husband and they say “screw you Porsche! I’ve given up my balls! I am not giving up my lane. This spot, in this lane, in this moment in front of your fancy fast car is all I have left. So you can go around me or suck it up. Cause I ain’t going nowhere!”
That’s my theory at least. And I’m sticking to it.