I pilot a rocketship

I have no vanity about the cars I drive, because I’ve rarely been able to afford it. For me, cars are like pets. I name them. I cheer them on when they are struggling. I pat them when they do well.

I have relationships with my cars, some healthy, some not so much. Some were temperamental and prone to giving me fits. Some were trusty and reliable and saw me through hard times. Some were fine, but for some reason we just didn’t connect.

I’ve driven some very… interesting cars. I’ve walked away from cars and not looked back. I’ve kicked cars to the curb with a good riddance and an obscene gesture. And I’ve cried real tears when it came time to say goodbye.

We said goodbye to my last car during the first week of the pandemic.

This was a decision made out of necessity, not excess. I was imagining replacing my ailing car with yet another safe, reliable, less ailing used car.

At first we thought the timing of my car’s demise wasn’t all that great. Then we realized that the car lot was void of almost any other customers, and a full staff of salesmen were eager to make deals.

We had a general idea what we wanted. When we arrived, I headed off in the direction of the used car side of the lot. My husband walked in the direction of the new cars.

I scoffed.

I’ve never owned a brand new car, and it hadn’t occurred to me that I ever would.

“They lose value the second you drive them off the lot,” I said.

“You’re worth it,” he said.

We drove away in a new car that day. It is a deep blue with a pearlescence that shimmers in the sun.

On this particular occasion, I left my old car without looking back. Not because I’d replaced her with something shiny and new, but because we’d never really gotten that close.

I do not drive my new car. It drives me.

I can tell my car how fast to drive, set it to stay in one lane and follow the lines, tell it how many car lengths I want to keep between me and the car in front of me, and tell it to play music and turn up the air conditioning.

If I take my hands off the wheel (which I hardly ever do, officer) my car reprimands me.

Keep in mind, I am a person who still had a flip phone until 2017. This new age technology thing is not my bag.

There are features in this car that I will never use simply because I do not understand why they are necessary. Some say this is a waste of a great car. To that I say yes, probably.

Something I love about this car is what the manufacturer calls “sport” mode, but I call rocketship power.

When I’m driving on the highway and want to get around a slower car, all I have to do is press the rocketship – I mean “sport” – button, and hit the gas. I go shooting around the other car with face peeling velocity.

As someone who is utterly awed and confused by people who drive the speed limit or slower, I find rocketship power life changing. It also helps me through any semblance of midlife crisis.

Do not be fooled by my mild appearance. I may keep lawn chairs in the back of my crossover year-round so I’m ready at a moment’s notice to spectate at various youth sporting events. But I drive a rocketship crossover. Don’t you forget it.

Thus far I enjoy my new car, with one notable exception.

There seems to be a trigger at some gas pumps that causes my gas tank to overflow. Thus far I haven’t called the dealer about it, because it only recently started happening, and because I’m thinking perhaps it is operator error. I’ve been pumping gas since I was 15, but until now I have not pumped gas into a rocketship.

The first time it happened I was teaching my teenager how to pump gas for me. We both got a little gas on our shoes and socks. It was annoying but no big deal.

The second time was a different story.

I was at the station nearest our house. It was morning rush hour, so neighbors were likely everywhere. Which really is better, because what fun is it to make a fool of yourself if no one is there to see it?

I heard the familiar gurgling of my tank reaching capacity. Just as I reached for the pump handle, gas sprayed out all over my arms. my legs, my shoes. I panicked.

I pulled the hose out of my car, forgetting to turn it off, which resulted in exactly what you would expect. I began spraying gas all over the ground, like a kid with a fire hose.

I gave a little shriek, to which the woman at the pump next to me muttered, “Oh my god.”

The tone of her voice translated loosely to, “Why are there so many idiots in the world, God?”

I turned off the nozzle and sheepishly hung it back on the pump. I wish this was the end of the story, but it is not.

Did anyone else know that gas is really slippery?

Because I did not.

I do, however, know it now. As I was getting back in my car my feet shot out from under me. I caught myself on the open door of my car and dangled there for a moment, racing my feet over the slick ground like a cartoon character going nowhere fast.

Finally, I regained my footing and turned myself gingerly around, only to find the women staring at me with a “You Are A Total Moron” look on her face.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I just need this day to start over,” I said with a little laugh.

“Go home and go back to bed,” she suggested, the tone in her voice translating to, “They should never have let you leave the institution to begin with.”

The moral of the story is this…

Not everyone is cut out to pilot a rocketship. Yet here we are.

Copyright © 2020 Sara Beth Wald