the last frontier of disempowerment

There's one big hole in my fully-functioning-adult training. And at the bottom of this hole, you'll find everything to do with cars, including, but not limited to, changing tires, driving a stick, figuring out where to take a car that isn't working, describing car noises, knowing how to not get ripped off by people who know a hell of a lot more about cars than I do, buying a new car, and being able to name, on sight, a single solitary item that lives under the hood of a car. I attribute this dirth of knowledge to two things: a) the relationship I had with my father when I was a teenager and b) that fact that my father is really smart about cars. On the first point, the process of passing knowledge from father to daughter was often quite contentious when I was younger. I'd get bored and he'd get impatient and he'd wind up swearing aloud, while I swore silently in my head. And then I moved away and so-called "teaching moments" became fewer and further in between. The upshot of that is that Fred and I haven't had a screaming match in some years! Most days, in fact, I find that he's pretty good company. And a fine fellow, to boot! And on the second point, well, when your dad is so GOOD at taking care of such things for you, it makes your learning how to do it yourself somewhat unnecessary.

I bring this up because, today, I learned that my transmission case is cracked (does that make sense to someone? Because I really don't know what it means), I need new brake pads and rotors (I could have SWORN I just got new ones, like, 3 years ago! You have to do that every three years??? That's, like, a lot!), and several of my emissions-related sensors are blown and in need of replacement. All in all, they tell me that I need to spend $3300 in order to get my car to pass Virginia safety and emissions standards. My car is already 10 years old and not worth anywhere near that sum. And so, today, Super Fred sprung to action and managed to, in exceptionally short order, procure another car for me. See? For what purpose do I need to learn anything? I've got this amazing dad! Meanwhile, of course, my old, hobbling, sad car is paid off. And now I've got friggin' car payments, like every other American young adult on the planet. Blech!

Now, I've chosen to write a post about all this for only one reason. Car issues scare the crap out of me and make me feel like a totally helpless female person, straight out of a generation other than my own. There are not too many things that make me feel anything other than self-sufficient, but when my car freaks out, I, too, freak out. On one hand, I hate having to have a car in the first place. I feel crappy about myself and call myself a hypocrite every time I put gas in one, because I'm hyper-aware that I'm contributing to the war effort. And global climate change. And the depletion of natural resources. And, pretty much, everything about being a car owner operates in direct opposition to my most core values. But dammit, I'd have to get up two hours earlier if I were gonna take the freakin' metro/bus into work every morning. And I already get up at 6 AM! Owning a car is, for the time being, a necessary evil. And I mean it when I say "evil."

But the truth is, I'm wholly at the mercy of anyone who knows more about cars than I do. And it seems, until now, I've always managed to live with or near someone who is smart about cars-- or at least presents a convincing lesbian tough-girl front when necessary. And in this way, I find that, at thirty years of age, I'm hopelessly ripe for victimization, both at the auto repair shop and at the car dealership. And this is the case sheerly because of my own negligence on this front.

So, because I'm somewhat disinclined to sign up of a class in basic auto mechanics at any point in the near future, I'm going to issue forth a tremendously retrogressive request to the cosmos: Dear Cosmos, please send me a beau who, not only has read some or all of the books on my previously posted reading list, but also knows lots about cars. In my next life, I promise I'll take that auto-repair course. Regardless of whether I have a vagina or penis in that next life. I promise.

Dear Cosmos, please don't take me up on that last promise.

Dear Cosmos, P.S. Please note. Make sure that afore-requested beau does not place undue value or any amount of his/her self-worth in his/her own car. Driving a fancy car does not make for a good suitor of me. Such attitudes make me want to vomit a little. Preferably in said fancy car.