My Car’s Name is Helen
Helen and I aren’t getting along well these days. I wish we were.
I didn’t think she’d ever act like she did today. I thought I knew her every little foible. See, we’ve been together going on two years, and I always thought that we’d be together indefinitely.
Maybe I know that it’s not meant to last, and maybe I’ll switch to a newer model in a couple of years, but I always thought we’d do just fine, if only we’d live in the moment. Of course, the trouble with living in the moment is that you never see anything coming.
Case in point: Today was a bad day for us. I was tired, I was frustrated and we were on our way home from a long day at work. Helen, for some reason, decides that this is the perfect time to break down and fall apart.
Things got pretty heated, she more than I, though I still managed to say some things I shouldn’t have. She wouldn’t budge. I had no choice. I pulled over to the side of the road, and I tried to get things sorted out.
It didn’t work. She wasn’t receptive, and I didn’t have any new ideas. I wasn’t about to go push her buttons, because in her overheated state, I didn’t know what damage she’d manage to achieve. For a time, we sat there and said nothing.
She hadn’t even cooled off yet when, at the worst possible moment, the boss of my boss pulled over to see if I was okay. Embarrassed, I got it together enough to make it back home.
She still doesn’t speak to me, though I’d bet that she’s acting up because I’m not treating her right. I’m not treating her the way she wants me to; I’m not treating her the way she needs me to. Thing is, I know that were I to ask, she wouldn’t respond.
For crying out loud, who does she think I am? Some kind of manual reader?