“He didn’t hold out a lot of hope.” This was my husband’s summary of our mechanic’s reaction to my 17-year-old Thunderbird limping into his lot this afternoon.
“Either it’s leaking coolant or the engine’s eating it. And he says he couldn’t find a leak before.” Presumably if one’s engine is ‘eating’ coolant, that’s not good. The car overheats to the point of steam billowing out from under the hood. This would lead, I believe, to the engine seizing. And that is death.
It is sickening. I love this car. It was a dream come true. And now it’s dying.
My husband tells me the mechanic was raving about a RAV4 Hybrid, how it gets 42 miles a gallon. I am aghast at this, the thought. Trading my beautiful car for a crackerjack box SUV driven by every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the highway. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a RAV4,” I reply, looking out the window of our F150 as we pull away from the mechanic’s lot.
“It’s like your whole identity is wrapped up in that car,” he says.
Of course, my whole identity is wrapped in my car, I think. I GREW UP IN DETROIT.
We talked about cars, we bought cars, we admired cars, we knew cars, we washed cars on Sunday, we waxed cars by hand. We never let a wet chamois hit the ground lest it pick up tiny stones that could scratch the finish.
Don’t get me started on chrome.
My husband doesn’t understand any of this. He’s from Philadelphia. I don’t know what they did in Philadelphia. Ate sandwiches. He drives a truck and never washes it.
How did we ever stay married this long?