Its shape, its size the accessories. From the built-in child seat to extra holders for sippee cups, the separate compartments for toys. Ah, yes, and the LACK of fine Corinthian leather. It shouts out its message - loud and clear - for all those to hear as they zip along side me as I drive to and from work each day.
"I am a Dad. I am driving an official "Dad Car." I am no longer cool!
You remember. It's the kind of vehicle that, when I was 15-years-old, I made my best friend Mitchell swear that if he EVER caught me driving such a car when I became old - you know, over 30 - he had explicit orders to hold my head underwater until I came to my senses.
But now, as an "official Dad," I was driving that EXACT kind of vehicle that every teen-aged male vowed on a stack of bibles - and under penalty of being labeled uncool - that he would never be caught dead in.
And not only was I driving one, but - gasp - I actually
owned this "Dad car."
My my. How things have changed since I was wiser and, obviously much cooler in my younger years.
Back then, I wouldn't be caught dead in a "Dad car."
Even if it were the only vehicle remaining in the world, moments after an A-bomb invasion of my neighborhood spearheaded by the Nikita Krushchev-led Communist forces required me to be rushed to the hospital because of the four chocolate Yoo-hoos I had gulped in an effort to wash down the five Hostess Snowballs I devoured - in what I determined to be my last supper here on earth.
And the Emergency Broadcast System warning heard on my transistor radio indicated that this was NOT a test. And I had to get to the hospital, immediately. No way in H-E double toothpick was I going to be whisked away in my Dad's car!
THAT car?
Yeah, right! Id rather die at the hands of enemy forces than be driven in "that excuse for a vehicle," I told everyone.
But that was a long time ago. Or at least it seems so.
Because most days as I drive off to work, I am unabashedly seen by all. In a vehicle that screams, "I AM A DAD!" to everyone within earshot of my all-news-radio-station-blaring, family minivan.
This afternoon as I pull alongside of that carload of giggling teenaged girls, I no longer have any thoughts - nor any chance - of capturing their eyes just like my buddies and I might have years ago in our cool cars.
Especially when I vaguely recall how minivans emit a low-level frequency, audible only to teenagers. And heard loud and clear in that sporty convertible filled with those "hot babes," the signal blasts out "Warning. Warning. Do not come near. Stand clear. This man has a complete collection of Barney the Dinosaur DVDs at home. I am a Dad. I am in a "Dad Car." Uncool. I've been to a Wiggles concert!"
And as to why I no longer get the "thumbs up" from way-cool, baseball-capped teens and twenty-somethings maneuvering their stylish SUVs on the open road? Surely it had to be their allegiance to the oath that I too was once sworn to - "To honor, obey, and never be seen in such a vehicle. Until at least 30."
Driving my "Dad Car" certainly brings back memories of my buddy's old man's vehicle.
You know the car. Every neighborhood had one. That big station wagon. With the imitation wood grain on the side? Complete with plastic seat covers that became part of your anatomy during those steamy summer drives to the beach.
I recall how delighted I was in teasing my friend about it. Tormenting him about how uncool it was. Especially with its orange tennis ball strategically placed on that beach wagon's radio antenna - so his mom could easily spot it in the A & P parking lot.
Was it that long ago while ridding in that car that we would BEG my buddy's dad to keep the windows CLOSED, so we wouldn't be seen in it. As we faded in and out of consciousness in the back seat - overcome by the car's pine-scented air fresheners and his dad's nasty cigars.
Somehow, that inherent desire for maintaining my coolness had become replaced with a need for - practicality. How and when it happened? I can't quite put my finger on it. But becoming a Dad just happened, it seems.
And owning a vehicle cool enough to carry me and my best buddies, beach gear, coolers, sporting equipment, cassettes and my steadygirl asking me to "slowdown, will ya?" - had somehow magically transformed into a van.
One today, that as a "Dad Car" more importantly can handle strollers, juice boxes, Goldfish crackers and Disney soundtracks, along with a wife and our two daughters constantly inquiring, "are we there, yet, Dad?"
This morning I adjust my car's rear view mirror, my weary eyes catching the remains of an "I Am The Proud Parent Of An Honor Student" bumper sticker on the back window. And with my wingtips stuck to a Juicy Juice soaked floormat, and my body comfortably slouched in my family van's lumbar support seat, being uncool no longer mattered.
I turned the key in the ignition and like most mornings happily headed off to work.
My mouth wide open, singing along to Disney's Lion King "The Circle of Life." Blaring loudly for all to hear.
Uncool on the Road.
Smiling - and happy.
In my "Dad Car."
Copyright: Cranberry Country Communications
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