THE MEANDERWALKER

Cars make me feel really anxious. Not, like, being in them or driving them really — although I’m still not a fan of driving, generally speaking — it’s all the other stuff that goes along with them. And it’s the easy stuff even, like vacuuming out my car when it gets dirty inside, filling up the tires with air so as to achieve better gas mileage, taking the large container of clothes out of the trunk for the same reason, replacing the dome light that’s been out pretty much since I got it, and CHECKING AND FILLING UP THE OIL.

Granted, I think about checking my oil a lot. But it’s usually only when I’m either a.) in a hurry to get somewhere and I’m late, or b.) when I’m in the middle of driving somewhere and I can’t very well stop the car, get out and check it, because it’ll be too damn hot. I already feel anxious enough about dealing with my car stuff as it is… I don’t really need my car to spew hot gases or liquids at me and inflict actual, tangible pain on me, too. That will only make things worse overall.

At the root of all this anxiety, I think, is the future/anticipated anxiety of my car breaking and the subsequent feeling of my being more-or-less handicapped by the lack of transportation in our suburbanly sprawled area that fervently demands a vehicle of you. It’s like the reality of far greater problems becomes more apparent, more real, when I acknowledge the little ones, so I chose not to deal with any of them at all.

But the predicament remains: The more I neglect to check my oil, the more likely it is that my car will break. For good. So this behavior and these rationalizations make absolutely no sense.

Conclusion: I don’t deserve to have a car.

Also: My dad called me out on not writing in this blog.