Or: I Had to Get Work Done on My Car Today and This Blog Post Is Very Short Due to My Lack of Lunch Break

I’m going on a road trip soon. I’m not going to tell you when. But road trips mean getting my car checked out, my oil changed, my tires rotated, and my alignment adjusted.

I love my car. It looks like a bubble. It is an ugly doodle, though.

This is not just because I am a responsible adult. It’s also because I love my car with a fiery passion. It’s a tiny Nissan Versa. It looks like a bubble. I bought it new, and for the first many months of its life, I did all the maintenance on it.*
*Under the express supervision of my father, who cannot quite figure out how I can get completely covered in oil when doing things like checking my coolant.

What, do you not have a special head accessory for car care?
You are so weird.

But when I got my fancy job and moved into my beloved apartment, I could no longer work on my car. That kind of wildly independent-woman behavior is frowned upon, apparently.**
**Probably by super sexist insurance companies who are concerned abotu things like “safety” and “liability.”

So I take my car to a mechanic.

My mechanic also has fancy car-care headwear.
Because neither of us are weird.

This makes me jealous. But it also transforms me into a small, irritating child.

Don’t try this at home, kids.

And that is why my mechanic finishes my car super quickly every time I go in. But it’s also why he rolls his eyes every time I come in.

Kids on road trips have nothin’ on me.