Okay, just destruction actually. Not really destruction in the exciting sense of things exploding noisily, more like the kind of destruction in which things break at inconvenient moments, and I swear noisily.
The rest of the people in my life are sick and tired of hearing about my car problems. Every morning I update my most car-loving coworker aboutthe tug boat’s newest rattling noise, and in return, he tells me about all the bad drivers he encountered on the way in. But even HE is sick of me by now. He only listens in order to buy himself a captive audience for his own daily rant.
But everyone being sick of listening doesn’t mean I’m sick of complaining! Guess what happened this week? Okay, I’m just going to tell you. Because I can tell you’re just dying to know, and I want to put you all out of your misery. I’m a great friend.
On Tuesday, my car didn’t want to start when I tried to leave crossfit. I didn’t get too fussed. I just got out of my car and lurked around the gym for a minute. I wasn’t worried. It just needed a rest. It always starts. Except that night. After I realized it ACTUALLY wasn’t going to start this time, I sat there for a minute staring at my dash board, as if I could solve the problem by doing nothing.
Once I finished wondering what the heck I was going to do, I went back inside and told Law that my car wouldn’t start. This was a great strategy because, as soon as I tell him about a car problem I’m having (granted, the time I locked my keys in the car may have been more of a user problem), it suddenly becomes his problem and not mine. This is a great system. I’m not sure how exactly I managed to trick Law into it, but I’m not complaining.
He ended up just jump starting my car, which, incidentally, I had promised would never work because the battery was brand new. I am obviously an expert at cars.
The next morning, I was utterly relieved when my car started all on its own, since my backup plan involved staring blankly at my dashboard while trying to come up with a backup plan. I drove straight to the sketchy garage that I don’t like but that I use anyway because it is conveniently within walking distance of work. The garage called me periodically throughout the day with updates. The updates followed along the lines of, “Your car is starting fine for us every time, but we’ll keep trying it.” In the mean time they had many ideas about various things that I should pay them to fix.
For reasons best known to myself, I had them fix nothing. They had tried to start the car a lot of times, and it had been fine! It’s an old car; it’s bound to have fluke days when it doesn’t feel like working. But this was obviously not a serious problem.
I left the garage, and it started fine. I left crossfit, and it seemed to be struggling a tiny bit. Maybe I was imagining it. I stopped to get a sandwich on the way home (was having a serious need-to-go-food-shopping crisis), and it wouldn’t start at all. Why? Why me? The garage had spent all day stopping and starting my car. I had stopped it twice. TWICE. Only two times.
I had to call Roomie to come rescue me from my life. As usual.