To Big. Ass. Trucks.

I love Big Ass Trucks.

I don’t mean big trucks. I’m not talking about Ford F150’s.

I mean Big. Ass. Trucks.

You may think it’s because I grew up in Texas, but really? No. I grew up in Dallas, in the city. We weren’t ranchers or farmers or oil barons riding out the rigs. My dad was a professor and my mom was a nurse and we had VW’s and station wagons. I didn’t know anyone with a Big Ass Truck.

I’m not talking about monster trucks, nothing with airplane wheels that aren’t really allowed on regular neighborhood streets. Be real.

But I do mean a Big. Ass. Truck.

One I have to pull myself up into.

One that, if I am driving, people would make assumptions about the things I “haul” and the number of trailers I have to “hitch.” No one just has a truck like that unless you are “hauling” and hitching.”

They assume I have livestock.

And I don’t mean chickens.

It will have at least two gas tanks and I would fill them both during the week. Gas mileage is not a concern for the driver of a Big Ass Truck.

I’ll need boots, of course. I’ll have to swear a lot more. I may have to start going to church, at least on the major holidays.

I can’t explain it. I’m an English teacher and the most I haul is sometimes a trunkful of books for charity. I know it’s environmentally wrong and I doubt it’s the safest ride on the road. I have no live animals that would need a trailer. My little dogs would insist on the heated cab.

But I love the dream. Driving my Big Ass Truck up to the grocery store. Pulling into the parking spot. “Hey, baby Volvo. Hey, little Mini. Don’t mind me. Don’t mind me one bit.”