I suppose I could use the excuse of having been born blonde though that’s not much of one since I haven’t been blonde in 20 years. So I won’t.
Yesterday, I went to get my car washed. I pumped my gas, succumbed to the tantalizing offer of a carwash for a discounted $10 and moved along in to the car washing cubby.
I pulled in carefully. I felt my tires move onto the…tire-holding…clamp. The light was still green so I thought I wasn’t seated properly. It’s happened before. An improperly seated-seat can cause trouble you wish you hadn’t signed up for. So, I moved up. Just a little to where I was comfortable.
I braced for impact. The car washing Decepticon started, it’s violent machinations octopussing it’s vinyl tentacles up to my car, spitting and grinding giant pipe cleaners towards the sides. I locked my doors–it still makes me nervous. In the review mirror, it comes, it’s coming, inching up behind me, it’s…going back. It’s going all the way back. It’s washing the hell out of the air behind me. I sat there for the requisite five minutes watching through my review mirrors as the angry carwash robot vigorously washed the area my car was supposed to be.
Finally, it stopped, little trickles of water dripping out of it, spent. The light turned green and the sign told me, quite unforgivingly, to move forward to the air dryer. I sat under the dryer for about 15 seconds before I realized how stupid it was to dry an already dry and still dirty car.
I pulled out slowly, praying no one saw me do this, when I noticed this guy watching me. He and I made eye contact, I panicked, peeled out long seconds, dying to get the hell out of there. I drove North for 10 miles, even though I was headed South, because that was the fastest route out of there and the tears in my eyes from laughing made it hard to see, dust flying from my side panels.
I know it’s been said that women are terrible drivers. I’ve always thought of myself as the exception, but after paying ten dollars to watch sprinklers wash the inside of a garage while I watched helplessly makes me think: I’m more of the rule.
I write awkward tales. Mostly funny. Usually true. Often truthfully funny.