I drive a bit of a turd...metaphorically speaking, of course. (BAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!! I just had a mental image of myself driving an actual turd with wheels. I am five.) The little blue Mazda Protégé that I got shortly before turning 16 has been quite a trooper over the past umpteen years; it got me through two years of high school, four years of college, plus a few years to spare. Can you believe that?
But, like me, my car is beginning to show signs of age. The old broad is growing increasingly arthritic and curmudgeonly. As she screeches through the neighborhood, drawing cringes from fellow motorists and pedestrians, it is obvious that she will never be part of a heist. The corroded varnish, the beginnings of rust, the pebble-chipped windshield, and the dings in the fender are just a few scars that relate the stories of days gone by. A quirky piece of machinery, the slightest breeze used to set off the alarm creating a veritable cacophony in my high school parking lot. I later discovered that the only way to avoid this was to lock the doors manually -instead of using the power lock- but this was only after being called out of class to calm the beast. (Fortunately, the installation of a remote starter has since rectified this problem. I'm really pimpin' my ride.)
We have shared a number of journeys together: minor accidents, major swerves, flat tires, snowstorms of immeasurable intensity.... The countless daring trips we have taken across the blustery plains of the Midwest have often proven challenging in a car that is lighter than a fart in a windstorm. Over the years, however, one thing has become blatantly clear to me: this car is a Transformer.
But enough of the facts. Sometimes cars -yes, even Transformers- need a little extra TLC. As my little chariot enters her senior years, I have begun to notice internal signs of deterioration. Just today, in fact, one such event occurred.
Yesterday afternoon, I drove about 50 miles to go visit my sister B in the city where she lives. Fortunately, I encountered no problems during the commute to her place, and the visit was delightful. (Fanks, Bait-oo-hoo!) We spent the evening playing at the local YMCA, tasting wine, and dozing to Pocahontas.
INTERJECTION: Shut up. Just because we sang along with every song to a beautiful movie about love and nature doesn't mean you can judge us. You should recycle. Plus, we also watched The Hunger Games, which is about the violent deaths of kids, so we are obviously roughened people who love the earth. End of speech.
After sleeping in this morning and playing all day, it was finally time for me to hit the road and head home. I hauled my sleepover stuff out to my car, loaded up, and climbed in the driver's seat. As I turned the key in the ignition, the lights on my Transformer flickered and sputtered a measly tic-tic-tic. Oh, if only this were the first time my car greeted me with that sound.
I called Habibi and he walked me through a few basic tests to check the engine. Just as we were about to give up, I made an Elvis sighting.
Now, in my roundabout story, you may wonder why an Elvis sighting is so significant. Well, you see, this particular Elvis -a youngish middle-ager with a Floridian accent and a mini bouffant- just so happened to be a mechanic visiting his mom. What luck! To (finally) get to the point, Elvis jump started my car and gave me a few tips. I now write this post safe and sound from my dining room table, a pot of homemade spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove, and Betty (who occasionally bites my hand when I stop petting her to type) in my lap. Habibi just finished fixing my car.
I win.
But really, though. How often do we end up in a place where we throw up our hands in exasperation, ignorant of something that is so simple to someone else? I mean, we can't all be experts at everything, so we find ourselves in situations where we have no choice but to either pay big money for some stranger to take advantage of our predicament, or we can accept help from those around us.
As cliché as I know it sounds, I feel like it was not a coincidence that Elvis just so happened to be in B's parking lot tonight. I mean, is it impossible that God thought that I needed a reminder of nice people and good neighbors after all the horrors in the recent news? Really, how likely is it that my car doesn't start and a friendly mechanic appears to jump start it? Not only that, but how many of us could use reminders that not every stranger wants to murder you, steal from you, or blow up huge crowds of innocent people?
At this point, I know I'm rambling, but I suppose it's sufficient to say this: although I am not a raving lunatic like Blanche Du Bois of A Streetcar Named Desire, she was right about one thing...
But, like me, my car is beginning to show signs of age. The old broad is growing increasingly arthritic and curmudgeonly. As she screeches through the neighborhood, drawing cringes from fellow motorists and pedestrians, it is obvious that she will never be part of a heist. The corroded varnish, the beginnings of rust, the pebble-chipped windshield, and the dings in the fender are just a few scars that relate the stories of days gone by. A quirky piece of machinery, the slightest breeze used to set off the alarm creating a veritable cacophony in my high school parking lot. I later discovered that the only way to avoid this was to lock the doors manually -instead of using the power lock- but this was only after being called out of class to calm the beast. (Fortunately, the installation of a remote starter has since rectified this problem. I'm really pimpin' my ride.)
We have shared a number of journeys together: minor accidents, major swerves, flat tires, snowstorms of immeasurable intensity.... The countless daring trips we have taken across the blustery plains of the Midwest have often proven challenging in a car that is lighter than a fart in a windstorm. Over the years, however, one thing has become blatantly clear to me: this car is a Transformer.
But enough of the facts. Sometimes cars -yes, even Transformers- need a little extra TLC. As my little chariot enters her senior years, I have begun to notice internal signs of deterioration. Just today, in fact, one such event occurred.
Yesterday afternoon, I drove about 50 miles to go visit my sister B in the city where she lives. Fortunately, I encountered no problems during the commute to her place, and the visit was delightful. (Fanks, Bait-oo-hoo!) We spent the evening playing at the local YMCA, tasting wine, and dozing to Pocahontas.
INTERJECTION: Shut up. Just because we sang along with every song to a beautiful movie about love and nature doesn't mean you can judge us. You should recycle. Plus, we also watched The Hunger Games, which is about the violent deaths of kids, so we are obviously roughened people who love the earth. End of speech.
After sleeping in this morning and playing all day, it was finally time for me to hit the road and head home. I hauled my sleepover stuff out to my car, loaded up, and climbed in the driver's seat. As I turned the key in the ignition, the lights on my Transformer flickered and sputtered a measly tic-tic-tic. Oh, if only this were the first time my car greeted me with that sound.
I called Habibi and he walked me through a few basic tests to check the engine. Just as we were about to give up, I made an Elvis sighting.
Now, in my roundabout story, you may wonder why an Elvis sighting is so significant. Well, you see, this particular Elvis -a youngish middle-ager with a Floridian accent and a mini bouffant- just so happened to be a mechanic visiting his mom. What luck! To (finally) get to the point, Elvis jump started my car and gave me a few tips. I now write this post safe and sound from my dining room table, a pot of homemade spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove, and Betty (who occasionally bites my hand when I stop petting her to type) in my lap. Habibi just finished fixing my car.
I win.
But really, though. How often do we end up in a place where we throw up our hands in exasperation, ignorant of something that is so simple to someone else? I mean, we can't all be experts at everything, so we find ourselves in situations where we have no choice but to either pay big money for some stranger to take advantage of our predicament, or we can accept help from those around us.
As cliché as I know it sounds, I feel like it was not a coincidence that Elvis just so happened to be in B's parking lot tonight. I mean, is it impossible that God thought that I needed a reminder of nice people and good neighbors after all the horrors in the recent news? Really, how likely is it that my car doesn't start and a friendly mechanic appears to jump start it? Not only that, but how many of us could use reminders that not every stranger wants to murder you, steal from you, or blow up huge crowds of innocent people?
At this point, I know I'm rambling, but I suppose it's sufficient to say this: although I am not a raving lunatic like Blanche Du Bois of A Streetcar Named Desire, she was right about one thing...
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