I bought a new car.

After having my Honda
Civic sedan for more than 10 years, I decided that I wanted something that did not require me to turn off the air conditioner in order to pull safely into the flow of oncoming traffic.

There was nothing wrong with the old Civic, except for the unrepaired hail damage, a rear window that would not go down, a cracked rear bumper, a ceiling that was coming down and more door dings in its dull gray paint than you could count. But in Old Grey’s defense, she never left me on the side of the road and never needed any major repairs. She was a good car for that point in our family’s life, and I can only hope that the new owner will have many years of dependable service.

But the time had come and I could not resist that new car smell anymore. So, one Friday evening before closing time on the last day of the month, I found myself at the dealership about to sign on the dotted line in order to drive away in a brand new model of sensible, four-door family practicality. It was safe and had lots of space with sliding doors on each side that allowed for easy ingress and egress for Ben, Luke, their car seats, soccer gear and travel toys.

Yes, I was about to buy a minivan.

I never thought of myself as a minivan man, and while there is nothing wrong with anyone who owns them, I never dreamed of being at the helm of one. Besides, Carrie and I already had a sport utility vehicle that had been claimed by our kids as their mobile play room, dining hall and sadly, occasional bathroom.

So there I sat, pen in hand, about to trade in the last dregs of "College Phil" for a more practical and larger model known as "Father Phil." After some hesitation, I glanced up at the sales person who cocked his head to the side like a confused puppy. He must have interpreted my delay as yet another negotiation tactic from me, but he was quite wrong. It wasn’t him, it was me. The terms were favorable, the APR was 1.9% and I knew I was going to get a sweet deal on the trade-in of Old Grey.

"Is everything okay, Mr. Wise?" he finally asked.

"Mmm Huh…" I mumbled, while staring over his right shoulder at the lot of shiny new Hondas, lined up with precise spacing, like Japanese warriors ready for battle. My glance turned into a mesmerized stare which was finally broken by the movement of the car porter, as he drove "Old Grey" out of my sight to the back of the dealership in order to give her a celebrity makeover for the next owner.

"Goodbye College Phil," I sighed to myself, trying to hold back the tears. Perhaps I wasn’t crying as much as I was fighting the eye-watering glare of a certain shiny V6 coupe with a sunroof, heated leather seats, premium alloy wheels, hands-free Bluetooth and more media inputs than a recording studio. Granted, even Superman himself would have been hard pressed to see all of those finer interior details from where I was sitting. But that is what I remember when I first walked the lot and stopped for a very long time and peered through the window of something I knew I shouldn’t get. Like a zombie, I slowly raised my left hand and pointed at the graceful red elegance that now called to me from the parking lot.

"Can I take one more test drive?" I said, not even looking at the dealer who sat impatiently across the desk from me.

"Absolutely!" he said, as he turned to figure out what car I was now interested in. "The red one?" he said incredulously.

"I think so, yeah," I shook my head, as I finally broke my gaze in order to affirm my intentions.

You probably know how this story ends but in case you don’t, it concludes with me making an entirely impractical decision for a married man with two small children. Thankfully, Carrie was the one who finally pushed me over the edge when she told me to "just go for it" and get something that I really I wanted. I am sure that I will one day find myself uttering that same mantra to her, the next time she is on the cusp of a major "practical vs. impractical" decision.

But aside from her approval, I also thought back to when I was a kid. We had two cars in my family: The station wagon that served as the family car and then my Dad’s car which nobody, (not even my Mom) drove. It was a blue, 1977 Plymouth Fury with a 440 Interceptor engine. It wasn’t practical, family friendly or very gas thrifty. But it was the "Dad car" and to a certain extent, it defined who he was. As I pulled out of the dealership that evening, I felt a little guilty for being selfish. But when I hit the gas and pulled out into oncoming traffic, I swear I could hear my Dad whisper in my ear: "Floor it!" RPM