Despite the fact that it�s given me the power to bend steel with my thighs -- a skill that will no doubt come in handy when I eventually turn to whoring -- six months of walking everywhere has also worn down both my soles and my spirit. This is why I was exceedingly glad to spy a car for sale over the weekend, that was reasonably within my budget and also reasonably trustworthy in appearance. Not that I�m a big snob about the way cars look, or anything, but be it widely known that cars that look like shit? Generally run like it, too. And thus is the ancient wisdom imparted from me to you.
Of course, what in the hell do I know about cars? Particularly of the already-been-used variety, which is where my attentions have been trained of late. I am fairly well familiar with my limitations -- and am consistently refreshed on them via a humiliating little process I like to call �Trial and Error� -- and I happen to know that I happen to know just this side of jackshit when it comes to cars. I can certainly put on a good show, all sage nodding and contemplative �hmmm��s, but it�s not unlike faking it through a conversation where the other party is speaking primarily in a foreign tongue; you can tell that there�s a lot you�re not quite grasping, and you get the distinct impression that they recognize your na�vet� more fully than they�re letting on, but you simply haven�t got the skills to do anything about it, and for all you know, that comment you�re all chuckling at right now could be an aspersion they just cast upon your parentage.
In any case, I knew I was about to stick my head between the metaphorical jaws of the proverbial lion, knowing nothing about proverbial lions or metaphorical feline dentistry. I was scantily girded with a few questions I hoped sounded shrewd and relevant (not that the answers were going to do me much good, since, again, I know fuck-all about cars and have no clue what�s appropriate or to be expected), and the continuously repeated mantra of my upper price limit. These seemed enough to me, and I engaged an older gentleman in a friendly round of poker-face regarding my chosen vehicle�s availability.
We took the car for a test drive, and I�m extremely happy to say that he was a little less�what�s the word? Oh, yes -- "overbearing" than certain other salespeople I could mention. I don�t mind telling you that it was very, very nice to be behind the wheel of a car again, and moving faster than my legs could carry me. Not that I mind walking so much, but I get a little impatient, and if you think the Escort had shitty acceleration, you should see my disinterested mosey. Few things are as aggravating as seeing the same damn scenery for twenty minutes because I can�t get above 15mph on foot.
Anyway, it all came down to dollars and cents (and sense, as these things so often do), and my mantra turned out not to be high enough to appease the older gentleman. I was actually fine with this, and walked out the door secure in the knowledge that the sea is full of fish, and that my mantra had a cap for a reason. The depression didn�t hit until about fifteen minutes later when my feet started hurting and the scenery was still exactly the same as it was when I left the dealership.
It�s not that I was so set on getting that particular car, but after a while, living a 15mph life in a 75mph world kind of takes its toll.
Tune in next time when our hero backs up a few steps and accidentally becomes Amish.
A brief update on my brother-in-law, for those who have so graciously inquired: his surgery went fine, and he seems to be in relatively good spirits for what he�s gone through. He�s had six thoracic vertebrae fused so that he�ll be able to sit upright in a wheelchair, and the rest of the family is pulling together to help them finish building their house and making sure it�s handicap-accessible. The one good thing to see through all of this is the way my family has shown its mutual support; I�m very grateful that I have these people in my life.