Have you ever heard someone begin a sentence with the term “real men” followed by something they think “real men” do? I know I’ve heard it many times. I’m pretty sure I’ve said it a few times. These days, I’m not a big fan of such statements. To me, they usually say more about the speaker than about the nature of masculinity. They express the speaker’s desire to hide their insecurities behind a smoke screen of machismo. Or they justify something stupid that the speaker is doing or about to do (with a fair chance that the result will be one or more unpleasant visits to the bathroom). Or maybe they display the speaker’s sense of superiority: “either join me in my opinion or admit that you are a wuss.” Look, maybe at some point, some actual wisdom has been imparted in a statement beginning “real men,” but, in my opinion, such statements have two strikes against them before they even get to the verb. The rest of the sentence better really knock it out of the park and lay down some serious wisdom; just being true without more feels like bunting when you start the sentence with “real men.” “Real men eat steak rare, play football, watch football, change their own oil, like shooting stuff . . .” and the list goes on. These hypothetical “real men” are often defined by what they drive. Fast is ok, but, where I live, big, tough, and off-road capable are better. A Dodge Charger is cool but sort of juvenile; a decade-old Chevy Silverado with off-road tires and a random assortment of well-used tools in the truck bed is the ultimate expression of automotive manliness. And “real men” definitely don’t drive minivans.

Granted, I don’t really consider myself a template for masculinity. I like steak, but rather than eating it rare, I just rarely eat it (cooked medium). I played football for two years in high school and gradually learned I hated organized sports; for me, pickup games of ultimate Frisbee are way more fun. Watching football is boring and the good commercials wind up on YouTube anyway. I’d be worried that, in the process of trying to change my own oil, I would somehow light myself on fire. And I have only fired guns on two occasions during one of which the former-military-type supervisor held out his arm behind me to stop the recoil from knocking over my bean-pole frame. It was fun, but I have no urgent need to do it again. And you know what? I am ok with that. It took a while, but I eventually got comfortable with the fact that I can be a “real man” without looking like what most people think of when they think of a “real man.” Real men can be quiet, unassuming, nerdy, etc. And they can drive minivans, too.

It took me longer to arrive at that last conclusion than it did for me to realize I didn’t have to turn in my “man card” just because I neither knew nor cared who had won the last Super Bowl. As I may have said before, I consider myself a “wannabe gearhead,” someone who likes learning about cars but who has never owned a “cool” car and has no practical knowledge of how cars work. Still, I know enough about cars to want to own the “cool” kind and to know that minivans definitely do not make the cut. My wife threatened me with the prospect of owning a minivan for years to which I responded that, while I knew they were highly practical, I was determined to “rage against the dying of the light.”

So what changed my mind? Simple: real men put their families above themselves. My wife and I had one kid and were thinking about adding another to the family. But we were worried about our cars. I drove a subcompact where I could reach all four door handles from the driver’s seat, and my wife drove a car that was old enough to vote, nearly old enough to drink, and probably qualified for disability benefits based on how decrepit it was. Yeah, before we added a new child to the family, we probably needed to add a new vehicle, one that could fit two adults, two car seats, a double-stroller, and all of the accoutrements necessary for transporting a couple of children (for non-parents out there, the rule of thumb is that the baby will need roughly twice their body weight in various supplies like extra diapers, wipes, toys, changes of clothes, etc. for any given trip including a 10-minute run to return a Redbox DVD). Oh, and it would need space for us all to pack our stuff for road trips to the grandparents’ for Christmas. I will admit that I was not entirely selfless in all of this: after a few hundred times of getting a 25-pound child into and out of a car seat in a subcompact, you begin to wish for a taller, more spacious mode of transportation. Once we accounted for all of these new requirements for our family, we concluded that we needed a large-ish armored personnel carrier. But we scaled that back and decided to get a minivan.

Regrets? Nope. It ticks pretty much all of the boxes that matter to my family right now. It just plain works. It’s almost like it was designed for families. My wife loves the practicality, and my son loves the automatic doors and the higher vantage point from which to watch the world whizz by. And while I realize that this probably sounds like a sad little family man clutching at straws to convince himself he still has testosterone, I firmly believe that buying this car was not a case of me caving in but manning up.

Look, I’m not saying that it’s cool or that I look good driving it (which, I admit, I try to avoid doing). I’m saying that we bought a vehicle to fit the needs and desires of our family right now. I’m saying that I’d much rather have a happy family inside the car than a bunch of people admiring my automotive taste on the outside of the car. So, if you are in the market to buy a car, consider what it is you and your family need and want. And ignore what people will think of it. If that means a Dodge Challenger, fine. If you really need a beat up Chevy with a lift kit, great. But if you decide you need something more boring or less “manly,” don’t sweat it. Some idiots may try to confiscate your “man card,” but not me. Because now I know: real men buy cars for the people on the inside of the car, not the outside.