Hey There, Tiny

I drive a truck. It's a 1999 Tahoe, it's big and blue (and tan), it fills a lane, and in California it says 'Texas' with a capital 'T.'
   Here in Texas, though, it's just one more truck out of the crowd, and it's not even a particularly big specimen. A Tahoe is just a Suburban on a shorter frame, after all.
   I was out today, shopping with my family, and we had one of those occasions when you park in the lot and there's no one nearby, and then when you come out of the store you're surrounded by huge trucks, monstrosities with push-bar front bumpers and gigantic tool boxes in the bed, and tires taller than a third-grader. Back when I used to drive a '72 Chevelle this happened all the time, especially in Sherman, TX where I went to school and rednecks outnumbered regular folks twice over. It's just what you deal with when you make your home in the Lone Star State.
   I've never once had that happen to me in California. Not even when I drive my car, because there just aren't enough trucks on the road to make it possible. My truck is always one of the largest in any lot, if not the largest by far, compared to all the hybrids and rice-burners and sensible econo-boxes that seem to multiply like rabbits under the SoCal sun. So it was kind of disconcerting today when my sister's crossover got lost behind F-250's and Silverados and Tundras, some of them diesel and still idling, surrounding her vehicle like so many metallic bison circled to protect the little one in the center.
   I did't like it. To be honest, I've grown used to being the guy with the truck in the land of car-owners. The one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind, so to speak. I didn't appreciate having one of my defining characteristics reduced to mere background clutter.
   God help me, I'm looking forward to going back to SoCal, where my truck is unique, and people pay it the respect it's due.
   Oh, the humanity...