See, once I moved out of the small town and into the city I switched from a pick-up to a car. Generally it works out ok. However, when I hang out with my other country friends and drive to country places I sometimes wish I had a truck again.
At one of my closest friend's rehearsal dinner we were all hanging out at the barn when I overheard someone say "does anyone know who drives a black Honda?" Crap. That's never a good question. I interrupted the conversation to let them know that I was the driver and see what the problem was. It had been raining that night, and when I pulled into the mud lot (the only available lot) I had a sinking suspicion that getting out might be a little more difficult that I originally anticipated. So as it turns out, the person parked next to me was stuck in the mud and when they tried to back out their truck was sliding toward my car. "Can you move your car?" they asked me. Sure--except that I was stuck too. So some of my dear friends waded out to where I was parked, one got inside and steered, and the others pushed the car out of the mud (while I, clad in heels and a dress, stood by and watched).
Fast forward a year and the friend who was getting married has a baby. I'm the Godmother. The days before and of the baptism are a little rainy, and the church only has, you guessed it, a dirt parking lot. It looks ok though, and I'm running a bit late, so I pull my little car into the lot and run into the church. After Mass I come out and back up--no problem. Only when I try to go forward to I realize that I'm digging ruts. So I back up a little more and try to go forward again. No such luck. Stuck. Some of the same poor guys in their same Sunday best got out of their cars and pushed me out of the mud.
Let's just say that at this kid's first communion, I'm bringing 4-wheel drive.