Few things make me feel less manly than getting my car serviced. On some level, I feel I should be doing that stuff myself, even though I know the engine was designed on Krypton and forged in the fires of Mordor. Still, I feel uneasy that I can’t fix it with a rock and a house key.
The real pain starts as soon as I call to make an appointment.
Me: “I’d like to get my car serviced. It’s an M3.”
(Here I am proud of myself for knowing the model.)
Service Guy: “What year is it?”
Me: “Um… I don’t know.”
Service Guy: “You don’t know the year your car was made?”
At this point I might as well turn around and grab my ankles. If you don’t know the year your car was made, there’s no way you’re going to know if the engine block really wore out after 20,000 miles.
When I take the car in, the service people are very professional. But they ooze automotive testosterone, except for the one female, who could also beat me at hunting, fishing, and arm wrestling. They make witty banter with each other as they bustle to and fro for reasons that don’t interest me. I spend that time looking at the knickknacks on my designated service guy’s desk. If I’m lucky there will be a new car brochure nearby that I can pretend to find fascinating while I wait.
In truth, I could not be less interested in cars. I bought my current car by phone, sight unseen. I called the dealer and asked if he had any new cars like my old one. He did. It was silver. I like silver. I mailed him a check.
It’s been my best car yet, thanks to my low standards. My only complaint is that the navigation unit is stuck on “shout.” It’s normally a soothing female voice. But when that voice is stuck in banshee mode, you don’t know if you should turn left or divorce it and give it your house. I’ll be happy if they can just dial it back to “nagging harpy” mode.
The next phase of the car servicing process is the most unsettling. I’ll get a call from the service guy saying he “found something” that if left uncured “might” impale me the next time I put the car in reverse.
If this were a serious medical problem I might seek another opinion. But my car isn’t quite worth the effort. If the frimjam is rubbing up against the hydraulic gear mounts, I want that shit fixed, even if none of it actually exists. Otherwise, every time I get in the car I will be thinking about getting impaled. That’s no way to enjoy the scenery.
I sometimes get a rental car if the servicing will take a few days. A rental car is essentially an ashtray with wheels. The drive train is a twisted rubber band. But if it doesn’t shriek at me for missing a turn, I’m delighted with it. After about a day I have emphysema and yet I am still thinking “I gotta get me one of these.”
You can’t overestimate the value of low standards.