And I must say, they do much better at managing the bays than the men did. So there ya go, sexism right there.
I'm happy to have this done. It bugs the P-I-Slippery Road Ahead Sign out of me. I do not like that task, the long line, the inching forward, the waiting inside, and the uncertainty of passing. But my dad really liked it. And so did my two brothers. The whole garage scene and the testing equipment, the smell of the place, the fumes, the atmosphere is their kind of place
This was my dad's truck. One of several vehicles I inherited from him. When my family assembled for his funeral and there was a moment when the den was filled with men, I asked them, "while you're all here, which vehicle I should keep?"
They all answered at once, as a chorus, without a moment hesitation. All of them already knew. They had already been thinking about it, and probably even discussed it.
It blew my mind.
So truck it is.
And I swear to God, as the Lord is my shepherd and witness, I actually feel my dad at my side each time I take this truck in. I'm completely alone each time, but not really. Every two years. This is the sixth time. And it happens each time. And when the truck passes, each time I'm compelled to say, to actually vocalize, "Dad, thank you."
The truck has been perfect for me. If only I could feel the pedals.
It only took forty-five minutes. And that much for traffic. The way back was really messed up. And now I'm set. Brand new tires, brand new insurance, brand new inspection, and soon a new registration.
The last time I put the year sticker in the corner of the license plate where the month sticker goes and that caused no end of problems with meter readers and the contracting parking maintenance for the garage here. They warned the truck will be towed. I told the office manager to tell them I must have been high when I did it. Plus it's a bit dark down there.