I’m at the car dealership this morning for some maintenance on the sparkly red CX-9. Which pretty much makes me feel like car owner of the year.
Turns out there’s a recall on the navigation system, which is great news. Since mine isn’t working. How ’bout that.
This lounge smells vaguely like oil. And there are six recliners. Six. Just in case I’d like to toss it back and take a nap. I liken that to getting a face-down massage at a kiosk at the mall. I’d have to be pretty crazy tired to take them up on the offer for such intimacy on display.
The three of us are strangers now united by the needs for our cars, and we’re all sort of collectivelywatchig The Price is Right. The womanin that recliner longs for the days of Bob Barker.
The guy next to me says he is here to get his car ‘manned up’ because it’s just not masculine enough for him. He says he feels like he’s driving a little ovary. Which I think is an epic metaphor.
The man says he’s driving a freaking ovary.