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Family Man: Piloting the ‘Father Ship’
My friend Bruce is a guy’s guy. He works as a structural engineer, designing such manly things as football stadiums. He’s got a rugged British accent, which obviously helped snag his lovely wife, Kathleen. And his sons, with the masculine monikers of Jack and Ben, share his interest in sports cars (though they play with the Matchbox® variety).
"TEXT-INDENT: 0in">Speaking of which, Bruce just purchased an Infiniti with tons of horsepower and nimble handling – perfect for this apparent kinsman of James Bond.
"TEXT-INDENT: 0in">“How ’bout a spin,” he asked before taking me on a high-speed test drive. I admit the ride was a rush and the aerodynamic body belonged on a pinup calendar.
"TEXT-INDENT: 0in">Despite the heavy-metal appeal of this mighty machine, my thoughts were on acquiring a different sort of vehicle – a minivan. When I confessed this to Bruce, he nobly hid his disappointment in me, saying, “Minivans are very … practical.” What he really meant to say was, “You wuss! You might as well just turn your gonads in at the dealership!”
"TEXT-INDENT: 0in">For this sacrilege, I have probably lost my membership in the boys’ club. As if my crying at romantic comedies, passion for fruit-flavored cocktails and partiality for the color purple were not enough, my lust for a minivan is an unforgivable sin against the brotherhood of middle-aged men.
"TEXT-INDENT: 0in">After all, what kind of man yearns for an automobile traditionally driven by soccer moms? What sort of guy pines to pull up at fine restaurants in a glorified delivery truck? What manner of male swoons over ample storage capacity and 15 cupholders?
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