To handle all car-related issues.
I’m a lucky girl. I have a great dad who has always taken care of any car-related issues. Changed the oil, done the maintenance, bought new tires, basically all the shit I could really care less about. But today, I was feeling rather like that was very high school of me, so I tried to rise above. Being the independent chick I am, I decided to take over one aspect and get my oil changed. Simple enough, right? Not so much.
I get to my friendly 10-minute oil change locale and all goes according to plan. The friendly technicians go about their business, tell me a couple things that are wrong but don’t say they’re by any means dangerous. But then, oh but then, there’s the serpentine belt. Apparently that’s cracked to the point that I better get it repaired — like yesterday. He said I could just buy one there, but that my dad could probably get it a bit cheaper (he knew my dad was my car-taker) so he made me promise to tell my dad and have him fix it. Which of course I will do, and I wouldn’t have bought something from them even if they’d tried the hard sell. My dad’s always got car hookups and gets things a bit cheaper.
But, in his valiant attempt to sell me car parts, the technician got me freaked out enough that I’m now scared to drive my car for fear the belt snaps and my car “just stops working”. Obviously, I can’t just give up my car until dad can swoop in to rescue me because I live in Detroit. Where I drive 30 miles roundtrip to work and refuse to take our only form of mass transit — the bus — because busses in general scare me (and it’s unreliable and it would make me have to wake up an hour earlier than I currently do, but I digress). Basically, I require very specific mass transit, i.e. trains or rails of some form that run on a frequent and commuter-friendly schedule, a la Chicago or my all-time favorite, Washington D.C. (P.S. Liz has a great header featuring my beloved Metro, check it out! But again, I digress.)
Anyway, luckily, my mom took pity on me and exchanged cars with me for a couple days so my dad can get the part and fix the stupid thing. Whew.
But after this oil change trip, I really have no interest in continuing to take care of my car issues, and I’m going to happily turn the job back over to my dad or some other male-type person. I don’t like feeling judged for what’s wrong with my car. I don’t like to determine what is an “Emergency Fix” and what can wait. And I don’t like feeling afraid to drive my car because of alleged “Emergency Fixes”. Best left to a man to deal with, I say.
The feminists among you may tell me to empower myself and learn about cars, but guess what? I really don’t give a flying f#%@. Seriously. It’s kind of like 401Ks and IRAs and investing in general (which is reason #4204 I need a man…) I just don’t care. I don’t understand cars (or investments) and I have absolutely no interest in learning about them. When someone starts talking about them, my eyes immediately glaze over. That part of my brain doesn’t work and I’m totally fine with that. I can’t be an expert about everything, you know.