You Can't Spell Minivan without M-A-N

Why does male insecurity drive everything I do?

I had just dropped a gaggle of ten-year-olds off at their after school art class and was heading back home in my cozy minivan, when out of nowhere, a black minivan in my exact model jumped out into traffic, cutting me off and causing me to swerve into the lane next to me. It was one of those insane moves that makes you gasp like your mom and involuntarily put a hand over the empty passenger seat to protect someone who isn’t there. To make matters worse, it was also one of those moves where you look in the rearview to see that the asshole could’ve just waited two seconds for the ENORMOUS gap in traffic that was directly behind you instead of gunning it and almost making you roll your car.

Now, maybe it was the incessant fourth-grade shouting of “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys, but with the lyrics changed to “I Want a Croissant” still ringing in my ears, or maybe I had low blood sugar and the image of a croissant was all I could think of… but I was pissed. Like, irrationally pissed. I stomped the gas and sped up toward the culprit, just to get a peek inside to see who thought they were so damn important they just HAD to almost hit me. But the black minivan saw me coming and sped up too. I took the bait and it became a formula one race down Beaverton Hills Highway— two Chrysler Pacifica hybrids jockeying for position, like the Brad Pitt movie, only more pathetic.

When we finally hit a red light, I rolled up next to him and braved a glance over…