I Hate That I Love Our Minivan

What have I become? Somehow, I’ve quickly grown to love being in our minivan. I’m pretty sure I have to turn my balls in somewhere, as I clearly have no use for them anymore. If I need a set of balls for anything in the future, I’ll just have somebody with a clean balls record make a straw purchase for me. Either way, I think I’ve reached that point in life where I’ve given up on being a real person, and I’ve now been knighted by The Royal Order of Emasculated Gentlemen.

Yesterday, following an afternoon out with the family, we pulled into the driveway and while everyone else got out of the minivan, I just reclined my seat, put my feet up on the dash and took advantage of the peace and quiet. There is no chance of ever achieving that peace and quiet inside our home, as our kids generate enough noise to make neighbors think a Seattle Seahawks home game is actually taking place in our living room rather than children playing XBox. I regularly walk around the house wearing gigantic ear protection like Warren from There’s Something About Mary. I feel ridiculous doing that, but drowning out their noise saves me from putting my face through the wall. It will have to suffice for the time being as I’m still in talks with a local contractor as we haggle over the price of having my head encased in cement.

In the minivan, I don’t need ear protection. My ears are raw-doggin’ it the entire time I’m in there taking my adult timeout. I normally put Pandora on my iPhone and have imaginary conversations with famous women I’d love to sleep with. To me, the fantasies are believable because the famous women I fantasize about are no longer super famous and I always court them after they’ve developed some serious flaw to make them more attainable, i.e. taking Drew Barrymore to Olive Garden a few weeks after she’s been hit by a trolley. The fantasies are always fulfilling and they are only possible due to the solitude that my minivan provides.

Sadly, I think I’ve developed weird sexual feelings for my decade old minivan. Kind of like a poor white trash version of Joaquin Phoenix in Her. It’s conceivable that one day, Jaime’s going to come out to find me making love to the tape deck. In which case, I’d tell her to upgrade to a CD player so I wouldn’t feel compelled to cheat. Until that happens though, I’ll gladly continue to allow my minivan to turn me into a miniman.