B-Rant

- submitted by DL on 07/07/2008

When It Comes To Cars, Men Are No Different Than 17-Year Olds

By Delia Lloyd

I've never put much stock in that whole "Men are from Mars; Women are from Venus" gender narrative. Perhaps this is because I'm married to the quintessential "metrosexual"-- you know, the kind of guy who's been known to wear a beret and a thumb ring. But when it came time for us to purchase a car a few years back, I finally got a taste of where Deborah Tannen was coming from. Because when it came to cars, my husband was 100% bonafide male.

I met my husband in Palo Alto in the early 1990s. At the time, he was driving a Toyota MR2-a sleek grey two-seater with tee-top (modest by sports car standards, but a sports car nonetheless). We spent much of our courtship speeding up and down Northern California's gorgeous coastal freeways, "car top down, radio on," as the song goes.

Fine, you say, what's wrong with that? Well, nothing, except that fast forward ten years and we were now living in a Chicago suburb where ten degrees passes as balmy-not exactly the kind of weather that's conducive to joyriding in your favorite muscle tee-shirt. And-oh yes-we also had a child (a minor detail). But still, the MR2 remained in our garage, right alongside my trusty four-door Honda Civic ("I'm saving us money!" he'd protest every time I suggested he trade in his car for something more family-friendly).

I'm convinced that we never would have seen the end of "Mister Two" if I hadn't been expecting our second child. At that point, I put my foot down and insisted on a mini-van. Allow me to say up front that I don't particularly like mini-vans: they're ugly, cumbersome and bad for the environment. But in case you haven't guessed, I'm also the practical one in our family and foresaw the years of schlepping kids, friends and gear to endless soccer games. "How will we possibly manage with the Honda?" I'd ask. "I'd sooner die than drive a boat," he'd retort. And so it went...

Desperate, I reached out to an old friend-and fellow Midwestern suburbanite-who'd already bitten the mini-van bullet. Maybe he could talk some sense into my husband. This guy sent us a long, thoughtful email, which concluded: "I realized at the age of 35 that my identity does not hinge fundamentally on what kind of car I drive." My husband paused for about thirty seconds to mull this over and responded: "And mine does."

For awhile, I didn't think we'd resolve this impasse. In what he perceived as a major concession, he said he'd be willing to compromise with the "sedan" version of a select few foreign cars. He contended (ruler in hand) that you could easily stuff three car seats into their backseats and that their trunks were every bit as roomy as a Minivan's. But I wouldn't budge. "A seven-seater is an absolute minimum," I kept repeating.

Meanwhile, the entire neighborhood weighed in. "You're an idiot if you do anything but get a minivan!" one camp maintained. Others saw it in ideological terms: "Don't become part of a nameless, faceless suburbia! Just say 'No' to the Mini-Van!'" they implored. "Look, I know where you're coming from, man," said one guy sympathetically. "But just try the Toyota Sienna; it drives like a car, not a truck." My husband was unmoved.

Finally, right when we were on the verge of going into car counseling, we settled on a Volvo Wagon. I liked it because of the additional rear-facing seat where you could stick a couple of extra kids. And he liked it because the local dealer found one with a peppy "T5" engine-satisfying my husband's need to feel like Mario Androtti on I90/94.

But lest you think this tale ends here, I've saved the best for last. My husband was determined to sell the Toyota ourselves because the dealers-quote "didn't appreciate ts value"-offering us a mere $500. And yet, despite the numerous ads we took out, we only got two calls in six weeks. Both were from 17 year old boys (one of whom had to have a friend do the test drive because he didn't know how to drive stick yet). In both cases, Mom said no.

And then, at the eleventh hour, we got a call from-I kid you not-the President of the International MR2 Owner's Club (that's IMOC to you)-who was looking for a 1988 model for his collection. He flew in the following week from Oregon and bought our car for $3000. "Hello?" I thought. "Your plane fare's worth more than this car!"

My husband gave me a smug look. "See?" he said. "I'm not the only one... "But I was secretly wondering if this guy also liked thumb rings...