The minivan served us well for years, but the family needed a new set of wheels.
On a whim, I drove across the state line and traded the van for a vintage fire truck, refurbished and looking better than new.
Shiny new coat of paint, chrome plated bumpers, a single siren mounted atop the windshield — it looked fabulous.
As I drove home, giant bucket seats, wind ruffling my hair beneath the blue suburban skies, I felt like I was on top of the world.
I began to worry a bit when I had a hard time navigating the parking lot by our house, and ended up occupying three regular spots.
The next morning, when I got up and looked out the window, I felt a little better. The neighborhood kids were all over the fire truck, crawling in and out of the cargo hold, hanging off the side rails.
Then, I looked over at my wife, and my heart sank. She was not amused at all. I knew that the joyride was over.