As a recent addition to the lower caste of empty-nesters, I’m already showing symptoms for a good number of identity-crisis indicators. And the one I previously would have thought least likely, interestingly enough, is demanding the most attention: the choice of a new car. I’m uncharacteristically uncertain about this personality-driven decision.
We Americans are defined by our vehicles, and for years I’ve been in that pragmatic mainstream of van and station wagon owners. Carrying capacity and road-trip comfort dictated buying decisions. Miles piled upon miles as my wife and I transported our two boys to and from school, extracurriculars and visits to out-of-town family. Our Dodge Caravan signaled our suburban status more quickly than any backyard barbecue or polo shirt and khakis could have, and our 1995 Camry station wagon, with its miniature-hearse look, stayed on the road well past its prime because of its useful cargo space.
They’re both gone now, as unnecessary in our broodless household as a full refrigerator or daily loadings of the washing machine. Parting was not sweet sorrow — they each measured beyond 150,000 on the odometer and neither sipped $3-a-gallon fuel as parsimoniously as we’d like.
For another man and another time, the next move would be obvious: Downsize to that luxury sedan or revved-up sports car and never take a peek at the rearview mirror. But this man and his time have changed. A guy and his wheels can’t go through a little mid-life crisis anymore, it seems, without complications, and more complications.
Aside from the fact that the installments might cost a dual tuition-payer with my career choice’s meager earning power a chance to be able to walk and retire at the same time, the smooth Acura and the hot BMW present other problems. And so, it seems, does every other vehicle currently on the market.
On the one hand, it’s a size issue. Like many American men — even those not from
The auto market has responded to these urges, flooding showrooms with SUVs and oversized sedans that might best be described as rolling living rooms. There’s just one problem: They’re about as fuel efficient as a 300-pound football player. Well, as far as I’m concerned, the NFLers can keep gaining size, but until we figure out a cleaner way to power them, our vehicles will need to get smaller — and post significantly higher miles-per-gallon readings.
Now this is the spot where you can generally rely on me to mount a soapbox about global warming. The ice is melting under the paws of the polar bears, yadda, yadda. But I’ll keep my eye on the road here. What do we do — what do I do — when the appetite for comfort and the energy consumed to achieve it so obviously hurt the planet and the pocketbook? The number of people who doubt gas prices will continue to rise is considerably smaller than the increasing minority who claim that humans aren’t responsible for recent climate changes. We are ill-advised to drive past this problem with our windows up and doors locked, like it’s some ghetto we must go through to get to our gated community.
Yet I am a suburban man who must remain in the transportation business — hauling college kids and their belongings, making pick-ups at the Home Depot, and so on. I am a big-boned Norwegian who gets restless leg syndrome every time I sit for more than a couple of hours in our Honda Accord or our 1996 Toyota Camry (made before these sedans went on steroids). I cannot afford the Prius or justify the gas-guzzling of the Highlander. The Camry will be gone soon, and I am a man without a plan.
It’s time to replace the supercharger with the superego, and it’s difficult to take the first steps. Weren’t things supposed to get simpler in the empty nest?
