on trucks

I used to hate trucks.

Growing up in Kansas it’s pretty hard to avoid them — especially in a college town with a huge focus on agriculture. My dad is a professor of agronomy (soil stuff), and pulling up to student events the parking lot would be full of them with all of their unnecessarily large tires and awkward tailgate ornaments. Farm boys and their trucks!

In high school, I had a job in a (very hot) greenhouse on campus. This would sometimes require me to run errands, which required me to drive a large university-owned truck and park it in a tight Union parking lot. Parking, no problem. Backing the truck out of the parking spot? Big problem. The first (and last) time I did that I called my dad in tears because I was completely stuck and needed a rescue. My five-foot self had no business in that driver’s seat.

I hadn’t driven a truck since then until we borrowed my family’s Toyota Tacoma pickup this past week for our moving adventure. A cute little thing, it was much more manageable, and I viewed the road from a totally new perspective. Plus, I never realized the freedom of being able to say “Oh, just throw it in the back of the truck.” I was sad to hand back the keys.

So, I guess trucks are OK. As long as the tires are appropriately sized, and you say no to truck nuts. Seriously, just say no.

Trucks. Love ’em or hate ’em?

LWTK’s mommy blogger, Sarah, is attempting to be a good mama to little Henry, wife to Shea, full-time employee and part-time grad student all while avoiding making dinner from a box every night. In her non-existent free time, she’s running, eating popcorn and blogging about it all at The Gatsby Diaries.