I Used To Be Cool, I Swear

I didn't feel bad when we bought the minivan. It had SO MUCH room, after all. And I didn't have to hunch to strap the kids into their seats. A sense of unease began to creep in when I realized that the only shoes I wear are clogs or flip flops, but I ignored it. It was a little harder to dismiss that I always have band aids, wipes and pretzels on my person, but surely the fact that I carried them in a stylish purse had to excuse something, right?

It wasn't even driving my kids to lessons at the Y and hitting the grocery store twice a week that brought it all home. It was signing them up for soccer this afternoon.

Soccer.

Next fall I will be spending my weekends watching my 2 older children on the soccer field. While wearing my clogs and (probably) pulling band aids out of my purse.

I am now a soccer mom.

It doesn't matter that I have tattoos or that I've danced on bars or that I've gotten high in Amsterdam. It doesn't matter that we have dancing time and go on nature walks and listen to Led Zeppelin in our household. It doesn't matter that my kids have never actually seen a soccer game.

I've still turned into a stereotype of suburban motherhood.

I don't know why soccer sign ups are worse than being the last person to hear about Florence and the Machine or realizing that I can't remember the last party I went to that didn't involve goody bags of candy, but they are. Possibly because there is just no way to make a bunch of 6 year olds running around a muddy field hip or cool in any way.

Also possibly because I will probably enjoy making small talk while my kids run around a muddy field. So it's not so much that I'm a soccer mom now, it's that I like it. Just please don't let me start listening to Michael Bolton and taping Oprah.

My Car, Myself

Something I read recently asked, "Is Your Car A Reflection of You?" (Sadly, I can't remember what asked. It wasn't a blog. Or the school newsletter. Or the latest Peter Robinson novel. So probably a magazine or a website. Dang, I read a lot. No wonder my house is so messy.)

So it got me thinking about my car.

Like me, my car does have a fat ass and is really, really pale.

It's also kind of messy.

But show me a mom who doesn't have a messy car and I'll show you a woman with obsessive-compulsive disorder.

So is my glacier blue, messy minivan "me"?

I mean, it's a total mom car and I AM a mom. It's messy and I need a good hair cut. It's filled with stuff we might need and so is my brain.

But. . . it's not me, not any more than my old car was. My old car had obnoxious bumper stickers. It was red. It had make-up in the glove compartment.

I'd like to think that there's more to the concept of me than whether I'm a suburban mom or a single teacher. God knows they (and all my other incarnations) live in my head. But what does my head have to do with my car?

I can't accept that our society has become so shallow and materialistic that "car" and "self" can be synonyms. If your car is a reflection of you, why are fat, balding men always climbing out of sleek Porsches? Why do perfectly respectable people climb out of junker cars?

I mean, sure, the President, the Pope and Paulie the Pimp's cars reflect who they are, but I just don't think that's true for the average person. Do you?