When it comes to driving, I was a late bloomer. As a teenager and throughout my twenties, I had zero interest in owning a vehicle or even getting my driver’s license. I did get it eventually, but it mainly served as identification to get into bars (classy, I know). The subway was my best friend – even when it smelled vaguely of pee – and I was content to walk anywhere within a few kilometres of my home.
I was a 30-year-old mother-of-two when I reluctantly got my first vehicle. We’d moved from the city to the suburbs and suddenly, a car was necessary to get around. I’ve always looked at cars as a utilitarian device – nothing to spend a lot of money on or feel affection toward – so I drive a very practical crossover that was bought pre-owned from the dealer. It’s not a minivan, but close enough. It looks exactly like what every other suburban parent drives, minus those stick figures on the back window (I had to draw the line somewhere). It’s my mom car, it’s totally cliche in every way and somehow, I’ve grown to love it.
It’s also a garbage can on wheels.