I Don’t Want A Minivan
“You don’t want a minivan?” asked my new manager’s manager, R.
“Uuuuuuuuaaaaaaaaggaaaalllllgaaaal,” I replied in my best impersonation of a zombie.
“Why don’t you want a minivan?”
What I wanted to say: “I’ve already written about that on my blog! Go read that–it’ll just take a minute or two–and then let’s revisit this conversation!”
What I actually said: “Oh, you know, I had this whole vision of my life that didn’t involve kids or a husband. Now I have that life and I love it, but there’s some little part of me that resists that last little, symbolic change, that says, ‘But at least my car will always be the car that other me would have wanted!'”
R chuckled. He chuckled again later when I said I was from Oregon.
“Oh, see, I’m getting it now, that whole wife, mom and car thing! You’re from Oregon,” he said. I could envision Portlandia sketches dancing through his brain.
I laughed. I think I’m going to have a good time here, even if I occasionally find it challenging to have to explain myself in 100-word bursts to people who don’t know I’ve already said it all in tens of thousands of words here.
(Come to think of it, that’s probably a good thing!)