I wasn’t surprised. Frustrated. Angry. Perhaps a little panicked. But surprised? Nope.
Yesterday morning was a typical manic morning, trying to get the kids dressed and out the door with the minimal amount of meltdowns (theirs or mine). I was thinking about getting to work early enough to finish my meme before my day started. I was also thinking about grabbing that book I was so close to finishing so I could knock it out at lunchtime, but I decided I didn’t have time. I herded the kids out the door, into the car, and….it wouldn’t start.
I tried it again. ClickClickClickClickClick. Except much, much angrier than that. My mind quickly jumped back to when I left work the night before, how my ZippyRedJeep had hesitated for the barest of seconds before starting, and I groaned. This had happened to me before. Two years ago. I can pinpoint it to the exact week, because it was just a few days before I returned from my maternity leave and I was panicked that I wouldn’t have a car and I would have to postpone my return. The symptoms were all the same – well, the angry clicking was new, but the battery’s refusal to turn over, the constant clicking of the back hatch trying to open, the eventual power to the radio – all the same.
Know something else that’s different? No one was here to rescue me. My friend I would normally call on in this situation, my resident car genius, was out of town until late afternoon. If it were later than five minutes of seven in the bloody morning, I would have felt perfectly comfortable knocking on the door of any of my sweet neighbors who have adopted me post-separation. Alas, I had to call the Almost-Ex and throw myself on his mercy. Thankfully, he obliged, although he wasn’t entirely too thrilled to be helping me out.
Whether or not he was happy about it, the car did start after he jumped it. And it started back up again when I got to work. And two hours later when I tried it again. Then I think I got a little cocky and started thinking it had just needed that one jump and all would be fine, because when I tried it at lunch, it started clicking at me again and refused to budge. Hey, at least I had planned for this eventuality and had backed into my parking space that morning.
Eight calls later to dealerships and repair shops across the city, I sat there in the Kwik Kar by my house and thought about how I was destined to be there. I thought about the Christmas car curse that was handed down to me from my mom. She used to always joke about how something would always come up at Christmastime, something that nibbled at the extra money she had tucked away and put a damper on the festivities for awhile. And it did seem to happen like that. One year it was two blown tires at the beginning of December. Another year, a dead computer system. Popped tires. Always at Christmas.
I think most of me thought she was joking, making light of the situation. It couldn’t have been every year (although it was). Then I moved out on my own, down here to Texas, and these things started happening to me. My first holiday season I not only popped my tire beyond repair, but the pothole dented my rim! I had to buy a new wheel! To the tune of $300+ if I recall correctly. There have been other tires, windshields, and now, the Battery Fiasco of 2008. So no, I wasn’t surprised. I was calmly accepting and very grateful that I had a little something tucked aside. So very reminiscent of my mom, in fact. But good gracious, would it have killed Fate to let the car curse fall to the Almost-Ex in the divorce?
Tags: car, car trouble, Christmas, curses, holidays
