I’m writing this morning’s post from an exotic location that has become extremely familiar to me and one I hope to never have to visit again: a car dealership.
In a spate of luck which I can only describe as Vickensian, Mr. B’s three-year old and extremely reliable Civic has started having issues that need to be checked out the same weekend that we finally started to look for a new car to replace my 11-year-old Accord.
In a spate of luck which I can only attribute as God messing with me, Mr. B poorly planned ahead (as polite a euphemism as I could come up with without coming across like, “What, I don’t have enough to worry about, now this shit?”) and now he has my car and I have his and I have to take his to the dealership, get picked up by Mr. B’s mom, take her car to work as she carpools, and share one car with her until Mr. B’s car problems are resolved. And then, once his car is repaired, I have to drive to to D.C. and switch cars with him. AND THEN I have to drive up bright and early on Christmas Eve to my parents’ house so I can get my annual inspection for MY car AND get some issues wherein fixed. and then. and then. I have to buy a new car, an experience which is possibly more painful than all of the aforementioned.
Or, as I put it on Facebook:
This problem would be solved entirely if dealerships did the repairs we needed on weekends (or peoples’ internal planning calendars worked more than 24 hours ahead), but, alas! God forbid someone make more money.
So now, I am at the dealership anxiously chugging on my water bottle because I’m going to be late for work and although I don’t have any urgent meetings this morning, much like an 85-year-old woman living for the early bird special in Boca Raton, I HATE deviating from my schedule and, what’s more, I HATE inconveniencing Mr. B’s mom (who, I have figured out, is a saint) and just generally having other people rearrange their lives for me.
Is it the future yet?