So my car didn’t start this morning. I feel like that is one of those adult problems that I would have had to deal with sooner or later, but I was hoping to put it off until I had a husband or something. A rich husband who will lend me his Mercedes to drive to work. And by work I mean the manicurist. I don’t work. Not when hubs is rich. I mean, we’re so rich that I call him “hubs,” which is a disgusting word. And yes, WE’RE so rich because there was no prenup because he made it big AFTER we got married. Also, he believes in the power of love because he’s an idiot. There’s no such thing as love.
Point is: Sister Christian (my car) was being a real playa hata this morning. Drinking the Haterade. Flavor? Blue Ice-Cold Bitch.
I think it’s important to add this detail now: it’s Halloween, and my subdued-for-work costume is wearing all black, a black leather jacket, and a Dread Pirate Roberts mask. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing more pathetic than someone wearing a Dread Pirate Roberts/catburgler getup staring confusedly at her car and whimpering “Sister Christian, why?” Someone walking a dog passed me as my car sputtered and gave me a slightly amused/sympathetic look. Listen, bitch, you take your doodlepoppypoo and get out of my eye-line. Ya heeeaaard?
Anyway, I took the only course of action I could think of: I popped the hood (a miracle I even knew how to do that) and I pulled up what was probably the dipstick, but who knows. It had schmutz on it, but I’m pretty sure that’s good. I’m not sure if the level of schmutz was good, but I looked at it knowingly anyway. Everything else under the hood looked like car, so I closed it. I tried calling my parents, but they didn’t answer. WHY DO I EVEN BOTHER HAVING PARENTS IF THEY WON’T PICK UP THE PHONE? Useless. Finally, I did the only thing I could do: I turned the key in the ignition and held it there until it started. This was after about 30 seconds of sad sputtering. Awesome.
If you’ve ever been in this position, when your car finally does start, you realize that you went through a whole gamut of emotions: Panic that you’ll be late for work. Calm that there’s an actual excuse for being late to work. Anxiety that you may need to spend a lot of money on your car. Delight in thinking that you can probably take the day off (or lat least a half day). Determination in not letting a machine beat you. Relief when the car finally starts. Confusion when you wonder, “What does this meeeaaan?” And finally depression when you realize that you can go to work and still be on time, but not have enough time to stop at 7-11 for coffee. You win, Sister Christian. You hateful bitch.
I’m making up for my morning’s slow start with pure badassery, though. It’s hard to feel more badass than you do in this moment: wearing black leather and a mask and blaring Jay-Z’s “99 Problems” as you power-stomp past all your coworkers on your way to the bathroom. BLAMMO.