I cry every time I take my car to the mechanic. And I mean EVERY TIME. Okay, maybe not EVERY. TIME. I don’t cry for routine oil changes... unless of course they end up costing me three times what I expected because undoubtedly there is always something else wrong with my car. So I’d say I cry about 92% of the time I take my car into the mechanic. Is this some sort of mark on my personality? A genetic deformity like the one my husband just read about on wikipedia that says if you sneeze due to sunlight, you are uniquely deformed?
I think it’s the stress of paying lots of money to someone in a predominately male field to diagnose and fix a car, something I know very little about, except how to drive it, and my husband would argue me on that point. The mechanic could be pulling the wool over my eyes, but who am I to argue. I don’t know if I need a new air filter. I can’t tell if my brake pads are too thin or my tires too worn. They can show me, and I usually insist. But that actually never proves anything to me one way or the other. So I fork over all the money I have, don’t have and sign away my soul just to get my car back so that in a few months I can go through the process again with some other car part.
Plus, I’m pretty sure that while they are all so nice to me to my face, once they go in back and are working on all the cars, they’re just laughing at how badly they’ve screwed me over. It’s like the squirrels in that one commercial that cause a car accident and high five each other. I’m the auto accident. The auto mechanics are the seemingly innocent squirrels.
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