I can walk and chew gum at the same time, but I pee my pants.
It turns out that trying to run AND blog while on vacation has the same effect. And since I pride myself on exemplary personal hygiene, not to mention my well-honed sensibilities on how to be a polite house guest, I elected to alternate between the two, with running taking the lead by a nose towards the end of the last few weeks. I can't tell you how satisfying it has been, therefore, to have not one but several comments from those with my actual email address saying they missed hearing from PFIFB. Ahhh.... I'm having a Sally Field moment even as we speak...
So, I'm back. And luckily for my readers, I'm in a right snarky mood, ready to comment willy-nilly on every darned thing that irks, interests, or elevates. (I can hear you from the front porch: "Oh Boy!!") Fortunately for my readers, the blahg-worth epiphany of the day translates into an elevating observation rather than a cranky rant, and it is this: I have learned what it means to bond with a car.
This comes as a great shock to me. Until now, car bonding has been right up there with public mucus snorking, throat or nose, take your pick. (HA! I confess I love it when a pun appears unbidden from around the corner, like the Cheshire cat grinning unashamedly in mid-air. What was I saying?...) Ah yes... machine affinity and sinus clearing maneuvers. To sum up: in my mind they have always been relegated to the testosterone enhanced end of the human gender spectrum. In my more cranky moments, referring to a collection of inanimate mechanically connected gears, pistons, and what-have-yous as a "she" and snot snorking pretty much cover the "Men!" explanation. That and the complete comfort one might experience in appearing dripping wet and half-naked, grunting one's way down on to a narrow cedar plank in a public sauna with unwilling conversation partners hunkered down by the door. But I digress.
Three years ago I became the proud owner of a bright red 1994 Honda Del Sol. Over the intervening years, that little machine and I have come to an enviably robust set of agreements. For my part, I provided overnight sheltered covering, oil changes and tire pressure checks. Okay, so not me personally--a big public thanks to my live-in mechanics, one and all. I did, personally, ensure spa-like dashboard Armor All treatments, strategic parking arrangements at grocery stores, and regular words of encouragement and endearment. In return, the car never once abandoned me on the side of the road or failed to make it up the steep bits on Highway 17. In fact, we came to a most important understanding: any sunny Saturday that I happened to fill up the tank, it would switch on the factory-installed auto-pilot and whisk me down Highway 85 and over the mountains for a wonderful (every single one) walk on
Time moves on, backs age, and tires wear out. Such is life. So last week-end when we realized we were on the threshold of new Michelins and the cusp of "old cars all of a sudden need a ton of really expensive work," and the realization that for as long as I kept the car, I would be heaving the removable roof on and off at the passing of every cloud, I got a new car. The make, model and year of the new beast are irrelevant. It's just a machine.... so far. But my little red buddy is sitting in the garage, detailed and ready to hit the dating scene again. One potential buyer has already been by. They went for coffee and a danish. He's coming back in the morning with the cash. I can't be here when he comes.
And so now I get it, at least a little. While I never got to the place where I knew its gender, I connected. I care. I'll miss it. Whoa.... I'll be snorking and scratching and grunting in public next!
