Friday, December 20, 2013
A few months ago I had the need to change my car battery.
This triggered a slight to my masculinity when I found myself standing at the Advances Autoparts parking lot puffing on my electronic cigarette as a woman old enough to be my grandma in an apron was changing the battery on my 1999 Acura.
"I'm not really good at this," she said with a twinkle.
"Ha ha, much better that I am, I'm sure," I replied.
When it comes to mechanical undertakings, I have a room temperature IQ.
Were I to attempt this feat on my own, I'd probably ended up killing myself with the electric current (pluses and minuses to that outcome; pluses and minuses).
After a while of driving around, the grandmas handiwork began to give in and my car stopped starting. I found myself deprived of driving around like a lunatic while listening to gansta rap and making strange gestures worthy of a High School drug dealer... one of the the few truly healing activities in my life.
Today I took my vehicle to a mechanic where my alternator was changed (Bp Fishinger & Mountview) because I thought maybe that was the issue.
Long story short, my car was fixed and they didn't change me anything.
I was truly amazed by this. I mean nothing significant needed to be fixed.
But still, when I am at a car shop I am about as vulnerable to exploration as a eight year old sleeping over at Michael Jackson's ranch.
When the mechanic with the lazy eye gave me the key and informed me that I owed him nothing my faith in humanity was temporarily restored.
Not charging me was the morally right thing to do but that is not my expectation of my fellow man.
Ahh, if I could only bottle that feeling.
But alas, a girl I knew for five years is ignoring my emails once again and I feel my glass of life-affirmation draining back to its half-empty norm.