Vandering mind

Call it naivete: I convinced myself I'd be one of the lucky ones. Look at Tracey R! I thought. She's done it, twice, and emerged apparently unscathed.

Of course I read every scrap of research I could find, pondered it endlessly with friends and strangers alike, even voiced my concerns with the salesman in the final seconds before signing on the dotted line. But he quickly and easily smooth-talked his way past my feeble objections. "Oh, every once in a great while, that might happen," he murmured, "but trust me: if it does, you won't even care."

And of course, he's absolutely right. I don't care. I'm happy, much happier than I ever imagined I'd be. But like Algernon, I have fleeting memories of my old life, flashing like lightning through my tiny, mouse-sized brain.

I have been lobotomized by my new minivan.

My. Minivan. The words look oxymoronic on the computer screen.

How could I possibly have a minivan? Aren't I a carefree 19-year-old babysitting these three adorable children and waiting for their mother to return with a hastily written check and a hearty thank-you for doing such an awesome job feeding and caring for them in her absence? And then I'll take my big check, hop into my zippy Jetta, punch in my favorite cassette tape and crank up the volume as I dash to The Limited so I have something cute to wear to Sixth Street tonight.

And yet, there in the driveway stands all evidence to the contrary. It's my minivan. Shiny black outside. Tan leather inside. Every conceivable bell and whistle. Parked next to my old love, my silver Volvo, which looks slightly humble now.

We had such good times together, my wagon and I. It was a stalwart of safety when I needed it most, living in a neighborhood that was slightly more than sketchy, with a traveling husband, a cranky old dog and a three-month-old baby. We navigated the streets of Dallas, the cities of Texas, even an ill-advised summer trip to Alabama with mi familia loca.

Ever loyal, it rolled with me to a better neighborhood. It magically expanded to hold a trio of car seats, wedged tightly together, on its middle bench. It forgave me a few minor scrapes, and I forgave it when it decided to blow hot air instead of cool in the middle of July for no apparent reason when we were three hours away from home.

But just today, my heart skipped a beat when I mashed a pea-sized button and watched two sleek black doors slide quietly open. Poor, sweet Volvo. How can you possibly compete with that?

My mind may be shot. I may never form a coherent sentence again. But if you see me scooting around town with three kids who are thrilled to have their own elbow room and more cupholders than they could ever want, you might detect a flash of something unexpected behind the tinted windows.

It's a big sappy smile. Me and my minivan.