Last June, after more than 15 years in Manhattan, my husband and I traded our 900-square-foot apartment for a colonial in Maplewood, N.J. Thus we embraced our status as refugees, a term formally defined in 1951 by the United Nations to include those who fear persecution for membership in a particular social group -- in our case, those who can afford neither a three-bedroom Manhattan co-op nor private school tuition. Like any sensible immigrant family, we began to assimilate: the kids overcame the culture shock of three-story living, and I found myself behind the wheel of a forest green Mercury Villager. Strangely, we were happy.
But that was until I discovered the queen of the car line. It was September, and I had gone to pick up my kindergartner at her parochial school, where every afternoon a phalanx of vehicles line up, ready to whisk away squirmy progeny. Being new to both car ownership and the car line, I found the procession sort of quaint. Then a large, shiny luxury vehicle arrived at the stroke of dismissal, 2:45, and blew past to the front of the line. I was outraged at the disregard for law and order -- this was the suburbs, after all.
But I soon learned that the interloper was queen of the car line, a prize the school auctions off at its annual fund-raising dinner. I began fantasizing about this mother of all suburban status symbols. Think of the hours that could be saved, not to mention how cool it would be for my child. I visualized myself swooping into the lot, glamorous tiara on my head, satin sash reading ''Queen of the Car Line'' astride my breast, rescuing my offspring from a torrential downpour. So long, suckers!
Early this month, dressed in a strapless black satin number at a banquet hall on Route 22, I was filled with anticipation. The band opened with a 50's medley led by the Everly Brothers' ''All I Have to Do Is Dream.'' I sauntered through a hall filled with silent-auction bounty, resisting the allure of a heavenly smelling basket of Michael Kors lotions and perfumes (suggested opening bid, $250) and a Dora the Explorer fantasy basket for the kids (suggested opening bid, $225). These were mere trifles compared with the royal title I coveted.
Then the live auction began: a mink coat, a diamond bracelet, a Knicks jersey signed by Patrick Ewing. Come on, come on. The blue booklet emblazoned with my auction number, 196, was shaking in my hot little hands. Finally, the auctioneer opened the bidding for queen of the car line. Blue booklets flashed overhead. $1,000. $1,500. $2,000. Sold!
Mine never made it out of my lap. I could no more afford queen of the car line than a mansion on the hill. And honestly, I thought, wouldn't it be better to renounce this alpha mom competition, hop off the treadmill of always wanting more and embrace the simple pleasures of life?
Nah. I figured out that you can actually arrive late, park on the side of the lot, run up and be one of the first to pluck your kid from the line -- free. What's a little cold weather?
Published in The New York Times
