My driver’s education teacher, Mr. Doom, began our first session saying, “I don’t like women drivers.”
Neither did my license examiner, because I failed my first driver’s test. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
I’ve never felt comfortable with cars.
One friend, however, described his potential purchase’s power seats, mirrors and door locks with the tender awe he would a forever love. I asked if they had set a date.
Me? I’ve felt more excited about sump pumps.
Cars complicate my life. No parking space ever stretches wide enough. Cars hide from me. If I stop at McDonald’s, I know upon return, I finally will find my car sulking behind Kohl’s.
My cars overreact. For example, I was taking my son to a birthday party when I ran over a large box flattened on the road. My minivan resurrected this cardboard roadkill. It fastened onto the transmission, which emitted strangulation noises. (Have you ever tried to explain tardiness because a killer box attacked you en route?)
My cars also exhibit marked attention deficit disorders. One ignored big rocks lining a business’s driveway, catching its underbelly on them. As its wheels spun helplessly, I wondered if we would grow old together there.
Fortunately, the omnipotent secretary assured me of help forthcoming and rang a bell. The eager help, who thought she had summoned them for doughnuts, received the high honor of carrying my minivan to freedom.
I told them, honest, it was the car’s fault. Guys! They always believe machines first.
For years, I tried to understand their inner workings — both guys’ and cars’. But whenever I crossed a garage’s sacred portals, the Gods of Grease inevitably inquired if the right troyer rod’s connection was causing me problems. Had I brought the car in to have its emulsifier de-linted, and did enough air reach the cogschain?
Or something like that.
Finally, I found a repair shop that doesn’t lock up when I drive in.
I simply say, “Please winterize the car,” and they take care of it. Even if it’s July.
Some people are comfortable with women drivers, Mr. Doom. Even if the ladies are uncomfortable with cars.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Are you a car fan?