I see you there in the carpool lane. So smug in your designer sunglasses. Or Target knock-offs.
I see you there applying your lipstick in your lighted visor mirrors. I see you pushing a button and watching your doors quietly slide open. And closed. And open. And closed. Because you can. You tease. Wench.
I see you with your dual control buckets seats. The automatic forward and backwards. The up and down. The hot. The cold. The perfect. The end of the fight over the A/C.
I see you with your 16 cup-holders. Your tray tables. Your under-foot storage. Your pet mesh. Your cooler. Your Thule on top for extra soccer balls. Your folding chairs.
I see you in the carpool lane in your gold, your silver, your blue, your deep red. Your seating for eight. Your DVD players and wireless headsets. Your music. Your eight plug-ins where those cigarette lighters used to go. I need a smoke.
I see you giving rides to friends. Taking the gang to McDonald’s for cones. I see your flexibility. Your status. Your suburban bliss. Your ability to reach your kids through the seats.
I see your comfort and space on trips. Room for pillows. Elbows.
I sit around the corner in my nine year old car. Too small to even hold my kids. Car seats smashed, shoulders rubbing, fighting. No room for friends. The eight year old illegally in the front seat so we can give someone a quick ride. No carpools, no soccer games.
100,000 miles, no DVD player, no headphones, no storage. Two cup-holders. The baby almost strapped to the roof so we can go to Costco. We put Grandma’s in the back to ride with the dog we cannot fit. No sudden stops. Or maybe one.
We travel Brady Bunch style down the city road telling the kids to duck if we see a cop. I don’t make eye contact with him. I keep to the speed limit.
No one asks me to carpool, to pick up their kids, for play-dates. Useless.
I don’t want your diamonds, your fancy manicures, your salon color, your Lululemon yoga pants over your tight ass, your Anthropologie dress, or your JCrew ruffle sweater. I don’t want your department store lipstick, your cleaning lady, or today’s non-fat latte.
I want your minivan. I want to be that soccer mom who takes the team home, who buys them ice cream. Whose kids invite people home and can make last minute plans. I want to drive that toaster down the road proudly. I want to sit in my garage with it – just opening and closing the doors while charging my phone, watching a movie, using my heated seats, and of course using all of the cupholders at once.
I also need some new red lipstick to apply in that lighted visor mirror.
Written in response to The Red Dress Club writing prompt on jealousy. SEE writing – not just vlogging.
We’d like you to write about it. We’ll leave it open: you can write about something or someone you envy, or a time when your jealousy got you in trouble, or maybe how it makes you feel to be envious. Whatever you want.