I’m not hopelessly uncool. I’m sporty. I know this because it says so right there on the side of my big boxy mini-van. “Grand Caravan SPORT.”
I had never wanted a van. I was not a van person. I shuddered at the very thought of a giant, boxy vehicle roughly the length and width of a football field. Then I watched the rivets that adjoin the side panels in a garbage truck pass inches beyond my nose while my daughter, then three, wailed in terror from the rear seat. At that moment, as my cute little sporty sedan was dragged sideways in a sickening crunch of metal, I wanted an enormous, air-bag laden vehicle in the worst way.
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