What Car Am I?

When I was in 6th grade, we were given an unusual assignment. We had to answer this question: If you were a car, which one would you be?

It seemed like a silly question to me. Cars were utilitarian hunks of metal that got you from one place to another. For the most part, I couldn't tell one from the other. (Well, some colors were prettier than others.) But I was a human being -- a 6th grade girl! I could not fathom comparing myself to a car.

So I approached Mrs. Hendrix's desk and accosted her with that all-purpose statement that I'm sure makes all teachers cringe: "I don't get it." And then I just stood there.

With absolutely no trace of annoyance on her face -- she always had a smile for us -- she explained how cars have different attributes that set them apart from one another. And so do humans. The assignment, of course, was to think about my own attributes, and then think of a car that has similar ones. It wasn't rocket science, after all. Just a lesson to get us to think about how we perceive ourselves.

After tossing around several makes of cars, she said that she thought of me as a Porsche 911 Carrera. A red one. As utilitarian hunks of metal go, that seemed like a particularly good hunk that I was being compared to! I went back to my seat with a smile on my face.

Now, I happen to be in the market for a new car. My lease is set to expire in a couple of months, so I'm starting the process of selecting a replacement. I'm finding this to be a daunting task! Suddenly, that sixth grade assignment holds a very real meaning for me. What does the car I drive say about me?

My real-life assignment has caused me to take a trip down Memory Lane. Take a drive with me...

My first car, a used Ford Escort that my parents bought for me and my brother back in high school and that my dad maintained flawlessly, likely showed the world that I was barely a young adult, with not much money, but adequately maintained. And the car was very tiny: It wouldn't have allowed too many people, or too many shenanigans, within its confines. I think Dad liked it that way.

Next came the Ford Tempo, the car I bought in college with some of my own money and a small loan to boot. It said nearly the same thing as the Ford Escort, though with a little more room and a slightly higher price tag. It might not have been the sexiest thing, but I was just happy to have my own car on campus, and the freedom that came with it.

A few years after college, I purchased my first new car, a Toyota Celica. I was ready for something fun & sporty, although I couldn't afford anything nearly as pricey as the Carrera. I thought my Celica showed the world that I could afford a new car, though one that wasn't extravagantly appointed or priced, and that I was a young professional in that "fun" stage of life. I loved that car!

My husband and I were expecting our first child when we replaced the Celica with the practical Toyota Camry. In beige. Now that I was moving into motherhood, I wanted something practical and reliable and roomier. (Maybe a bit dull, too. Is that what I subconsciously thought of parenthood?)

Well, parenthood moved right along considerably faster than we'd expected. By the following year, we'd added two more to our brood, so the once-roomy Camry was now woefully too small. And I was exhausted all the time. I just didn't care what I drove. As long as it was priced moderately and could get me and three babies (along with a huge diaper bag, a single stroller, and a double stroller) from Point A to Point B reliably, I didn't care what I drove. I didn't even come along to help pick out the two minivans that followed. I hadn't particularly cared to ever own a minivan, but it seemed to fit my stage of life. It was practical, reliable, roomy, inexpensive, and shouted: "Mom of many kids!" How could I refute the appropriateness of the message it sent? Besides, I was too tired to care.

As the babies grew a bit older and more independent, and I was no longer sleep-deprived, I became interested in my own life once again. The kids were school-aged when it was time again for new wheels. This time, I chose. I still needed a practical, reliable, roomy vehicle, but I had tired of the minivan stage. I had a specific SUV in mind, and I wasn't interested in comparing it with other similar models from competing manufacturers. The only option I was interested in entertaining was the color. I loved the Toyota Sequoia, and then the Highlander Hybrid that came next, when it became obvious that the Sequoia was high-maintenance and high-cost to own.

So now here we are, in a slightly different stage of my evolving life. The kids are getting taller and opinionated. They have specific ideas of what they do and do not like in a vehicle. I drive them around everywhere, so I still need a roomy & reliable vehicle for them and their friends. So no cute little two-seater convertible sports car for met (yet). But this time, I have more time and more knowledge on which to draw when choosing my next vehicle. I also have more freedom of choice, which is a luxury that I appreciate, but that also can actually make choices difficult.

So, what will my next vehicle say about me? I'll be driving it for the next 3-5 years, well into my kids' teenage years. But I want what I drive to represent the many facets of me, not just the mothering me. Unlike my clothing, hairstyle, and makeup, I can't change my car to suit my mood or the occasion: This is a one-size-fits-all proposition. So, not only are there price and seating and cargo and environmental considerations, but there are others, too. I'm a mom, but I'm also a wife and and also my own woman. I like reliability and practicality, but what about fun and zip and power and sexiness? Must I set aside those attributes?

The vehicle I use to carpool the kids around and run errands with is also the vehicle I use to meet girlfriends for lunch, go away for the weekend, and go out with my husband. The sound system that's used at moderate levels for kid-friendly stations is the same one I might blast while cruising with the wind whipping through my hair. The vehicle I use to cart dirty perennnials home in one day is the same one I'll maneuver in and out of in a short skirt one evening. The vehicle I use to drop off and pick up three children and their friends to and from places they love is the one I'll use -- just Kim, not mom, not wife -- to pursue my own interests.

So now it's time for me to choose: If my car is to be "me," which one will I be?