Size matters. Guys are constantly comparing sizes. Men with big ones usually make fun of the men with small ones. When I'm next to a guy with a big one, I can't help but to stare at it self-consciously, feeling inadequate about the way mine compares. Sometimes, I have even considered having mine altered. There are ways it could be made larger. Mine is white. I don't know if that has anything to do with the situation. I've seen lots of big black ones, but that doesn't necessarily mean all black ones are big. There is hope, though. I've heard that if a significantly overweight man such as me were to lose weight, that it would seem bigger.

I suspect that women are secretly more impressed by men with nice, big ones. Some are probably not so secretly impressed. These women may correctly or incorrectly assume that men with incredibly large ones are better able to take care of them. To some of these ladies, a big one is synonymous with success. I've known guys with huge ones that could meet the needs of up five women at one time. The sad fact is that for all intents and purposes, a guy with a small one is practically invisible. In fact, I suspect that because mine is smaller in comparison with others, that my confidence has been negatively affected.

Size matters. I've been a witness to this fact nearly all my adult life. Sure it's not fair, but neither is life. Offer all the platitudes one will, the sad fact remains: size matters. Don't get me wrong. I've always felt loved, supported, and appreciated. My dad always told me I was not defined by the size of my equipment. Most experts agree that a small one will adequately fulfill the needs of most couples. Even though my wife insists that it's just the right size, she concedes that mine could be a little wider.

I'm talking, of course, about my car. I drive a Chevy Cavalier. Now according to the dictionary, cavalier, when used as an adjective, means nonchalant, arrogant, or carefree. Believe me when I tell you that I have nothing to be arrogant, nonchalant or carefree about when it comes to the size of my car. Let's start with its profile. It has proven time and again to go unnoticed on the highway. Many are the times I've had to lay into my horn like Rosie O'Donnell into pork rinds to avoid being smashed into tiny little Chevy encrusted bits by a tragically unaware trucker. Whether that's a comment on the state of driving skills in current society as well as the unassuming signature of my vehicle remains open for debate. Indeed, drivers of vehicles not much larger than my own have been guilty of violating me in regards to personal space as it relates to the lane in which I happen to be driving.

Next, we have the fact that as it is a car built for economy, my car is somewhat less than generous when it comes to cabin space. The head room is sufficient, and the leg room is not bad. However, when it comes to room across the width of "Princess" as I've taken to calling my car, it comes up a little lacking. When Judy and I drive together in my car, I often find my girthy frame encroaching over into her half of the car. Also moderately distressing, especially for my passengers, is the absence of the "oh crap" handle in my car. Many are the times I've been absently-mindedly making some point or another to the people unlucky enough to be in a car driven by me when we all make a suddenly fear-packed return to reality via a radical swerve to avoid hitting sundry immobile objects. It is nearly comical to see the other occupants of the vehicle frantically pawing at the roof liner in hopes of bracing themselves for the inevitable rollover. It has never reached the point of an actual rollover, but I have had to have the upholstery cleaned many times. This poor driving due to excessive socializing has also resulted in Judy being named the permanent designated driver whenever we go anywhere; even in my car. And I'm not talking about designating because of alcoholic consumption. My driving, even sober, in a mutli-occupant vehicle is so bad that we have considered having butt groove recognition technology installed in my driver's seat. It will allow only Judy to start the car if there is more than one person in it. This has also affected my work. We always need to leave for the bank with the deposit very early, as I will invariably need to take my coworker by his or her house for a clean set of drawers.

This rumination over the merits of my means of locomotion was brought about by a recent trip to Arizona. On this trip, we ended up renting a Ford Escape S.U.V. Though this was not our plan, fate dropped this midsized utility vehicle in our laps and we ran with it, or, more precisely, drove with it. I must say it was certainly liberating being an extra three feet or so higher whilst whisking through the heavy freeway traffic of the greater Phoenix area. "So this is how the other half lives," I thought as we tooled around in this roomy people and stuff hauler. I also felt much safer knowing that in the automobile accident food chain, we had just climbed several links higher. Now the only vehicles higher than ours were tractor trailers and trains. "I really could learn to like this," I thought. What's not to like? It had plenty of head room, plenty of leg room, and plenty of cargo storage.

It was certainly a suitable vehicle for our rustic surroundings. Amidst the Giant Saguaro, the Cholla, the Prickly Pear, and the assorted barrel cacti, I was starting to feel a lot like a cowboy. I felt I was only a horse, a bushy mustache, and a few grits away from being the Marlboro Man. Only a horse or an old dented and rusted pick up truck could have been better. I would not have been surprised to see a Clint Eastwood or John Wayne type man astride a horse and assessing us with the steely eyes and wry intellect of someone seasoned and baked by a lifetime of Arizona summers.

The most indispensable feature of this vehicle was included in all other vehicles sold in Phoenix, I would suspect. That would be air conditioning. Driving in a Phoenix heat wave in a vehicle without air conditioning would be like scuba diving without a tank; foolhardy and, most probably, life threatening. As ashamed as I am to admit it, we spent much of this trip hurriedly scurrying from air conditioned venue to air conditioned venue with brief respites in the air conditioned Escape. Sure, we did a few outside things, like the zoo, but that was during the brisk ninety degree pre-noon weather.

To be fair to my little princess, though, she does have several good things going for her. Her carbon footprint is much smaller than that of an S.U.V. While I may not be the world's greenest person, I figure anything I can do to minimize my impact can't hurt. Another beneficial aspect of owning this car is that I don't have to sell an organ in order to fill the gas tank. It's bad enough when it takes thirty bucks to fill the twelve gallon tank. I can't imagine the soul crushing prospect of spending up to three hundred dollars a month in order to keep rollin'. The Cavalier also has a lot of heart. It's been rear-ended by a truck and gave better than it got. It was also sideswiped by a hit and run driver while it was parked just in front of our house. Yet it was still in good enough shape to drive until I was able to get it fixed. All in all, it's been a pretty reliable car.

I hear Ford makes a hybrid Escape. Maybe someday. For now, I'll dance with the one that brought me.