Minivan Blues

In the world of automobile design where the shape of a Ferrari evokes the curves of a sexy supermodel, surely the ubiquitous minivan is the equivalent of a pregnant mother. Bulbous and awkward, the minivan waddles around town delivering offspring to pre-school, soccer practice and dance recitals. With decidedly feminine names like Odyssey and Sienna minivans appeal mostly to women with children. The auto industry is well aware that vehicles are gender specific and it’s no accident that sports cars have masculine names like Boxster, Corvette and Testerossa.

As a man forced to drive a minivan on occassion, I find that it is virtually impossible to retain any semblance of macho manliness while behind the wheel. Sure, you can pull up to Home Depot and load the thing up with all types of heavy-duty, rugged he-man tools and building materials, but it won’t help your image one bit. It’s still a minivan and even the guy with a shopping cart full of pansies is laughing at you because he’s loading those plants into the bed of a pickup truck.

Despite the futility of my situation, when forced to drive our minivan I try to find little ways to compensate for my vehicular shortcoming. For instance, I usually call it a truck instead of a minivan. “C’mon kids. It’s time to go; let’s get in the truck.” Of course, they just look at me with piteous contempt and say, “It’s a minivan, Dad. Get over it.”

In an effort to improve our minivan’s image I tried to make a few simple modifications. With a large roll of duct tape and with the manufacturer’s instructions conveniently crumpled up in the trash, I fastened chrome plated air horns to the roof. The duct tape also came in handy when installing the plastic hood scoops. Bright orange flame decals were self adhesive, so no problem there. Finally, I added mud flaps like the ones you see on semi trucks with the shiny silhouette of a curvaceous woman in a supine position. If that doesn’t say “macho” I don’t know what does.

Stepping back and surveying the results, I started to feel a small sense of accomplishment. It lasted right up until the very moment my wife stepped into the garage. She stubbornly insisted that I remove my modifications while threatening me with actions that would make me feel even less of a man. On this issue she really doesn’t understand my point of view. It’s very much like the up/down toilet seat debate. There can be no understanding between the sexes.

Left with no alternative, I finally decided that if I couldn’t disguise the vehicle, I would disguise the driver. An inexpensive halloween mask seemed to do the trick nicely. Although quite a few people snickered as I ran my errands, I was certain that nobody recognized me. I cruised around town, carting the kids here and there with my male dignity fully intact.

This solution seemed to be working fine until the day I pulled into line at the drive through window of my bank. Nervous as people are these days, my masked visage was interpreted as a prelude to armed robbery and the authorities were summoned. I tried to explain my situation to the responding officer, but just like my wife, she refused to see my side of things.

So here I am in the poky awaiting trial for attempted bank robbery. It’s not too bad because the rest of the guys on the cell block hold me in pretty high regard. Robbing banks is right up there on the masculine hierarchy of pending crimes. It may not be honorable, but if they ever ask me about the getaway car, I’m going to lie.


David Theall no longer drives, but enjoys riding on the prison bus and wearing an orange jumpsuit. David can be reached at dtheall@triad.rr.com.


This column originally appeared in the Greensboro News & Record on August 3, 2004.


© 2004 David Theall