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