This Old Vehicle

     I know that I am getting older. Sophia, who used to be thigh high is now beyond me, Matthew, who was born just yesterday, is now an airline pilot. I still feel the same inside as I always have, but my external world is growing younger.  Sales clerks, bag boys, waitresses. They all used to be at least sixteen. But now they're twelve. The other month I went through a license check and the police officer appeared to be no more than thirteen. Even my doctor is a teenager. I have yet to need the services of an attorney, which makes me glad; if wisdom comes with age, we're in trouble. These people are in the age range of those who are proud to have paid $60 for a Tommy Hilfiger tee shirt.
     The increasing reluctance to pay retail prices, much less designer prices, is a major indicator that the aging process had begun. I have noticed that my thoughts have changed in this area. I no longer need the status of designer anything. Forget Tommy Hilfiger; I am much happier buying my Beefy-Tee shirt for $6. I am also not impatient in the same ways that I used to be. If Beefy-Tee is only on sale for three days, I am not swayed. There is always another sale around the corner. Unless it is an immediate emergency (instead of a protracted one, like having surgery), I only buy things that are substantially discounted. Ten percent is not really a sale. Twenty percent is not bad, but 40 percent is getting warm. I am quite content to buy something that is 75 percent off. I imagine that my twelve years in retail, combined with a generalized crankiness on my part that for retail sales, I am being asked to pay 100% more than the seller did, is probably the impetus for my attraction to wholesale.
     My penchant for catching a sale extends farther than just for clothing. If there is a generic equivalent of a prescription, I buy it, using my drug store points, of course. I am also frugal in the realm of automobiles. My Honda turned fourteen this past summer, which in vehicular years (the ratio in relation to human age being in my estimation about 4 to 1), is about 56. It is beginning to have arthritis and to creak and squeak a bit more than it ever did before. It groans over bumps in the road. It can't go as fast as it used to. It has had a problem with high blood pressure, which we got under control during the past six months. And I have to take it in to the shop more often than before.
     The older I get, the more I have noticed the distinct correlation between cars and health. I use them both to ease on down the road, perambulate, get places. And the older they get, the more careful I am to change the oil regularly, keep tabs on my gas mileage, take them in for regular tune-ups. But have you noticed how long it takes to make an appointment?! "I'm sorry your muffler is making sparks as it drags the highway but we don't have an opening until February of next year. Can I put you down for that?"
     The aging process of my body (with the corresponding issues of yearly inspections, replacement parts, wear and tear, and expirations of warranty) combined with my feverish inclination to bargain-buy, causes me constant conflict. Have you ever noticed that there is never a sale on mechanic work? Oh sure, you can find tires on sale or motor oil, or antifreeze. But those are peripheral items; what I want to see is a sign out front that says, "Get your engine work done here. Check Engine light coming on too often? Starter worn out? Timer need replacing? Park your car in our bay and get 50% off parts and labor." Heck, I'd settle for 25 percent.
     Over the last eighteen months, I have made multiple visits to my doctors to try to pinpoint the source of some irregularities that have caused substantial physical and mental anguish.  "Oh, that's not abnormal at all," they said. "Especially in women your age." Last month I went in again for the same problem and my pubescent doctor found a mild ear infection she wasn't looking for. I thought I was back at the mechanic's place ("I can't tell what's causing that there motor to rev like a jet every time you come to a stop, but I noticed your windshield wiper blades needed fixing so I replaced them. They're $30."). One week later, I was back in the shop. The irregularities had manifested themselves in a more alarming fashion ("Hell, little lady, this motor's about to blow! You got no brakes either!"). So they plugged me up to a diagnostic machine and after about 15 minutes they said, "Well, I'll be. There's a tumor."
     Of course the repair process involves taking out the offending part, which they assured me is benign. In fact, it is so benign that I can keep it if I want to. (Yeah. I want to keep a hole in my oil line. "It won't hurt anything; you just have to top the oil twice a day and keep an eye on it. 'Course if you lose too much oil, it could cause your motor to seize up.").
     The removal of this pound of flesh involves quite a bit of specialized labor, much like the replacement of a automobile head gasket, which costs a mere $20; the real cost comes from the labor involved in getting to it. I have the choice of removing only the tumor or of taking out the entire offending part, which includes the tumor housing, in my case the uterus. After a nanosecond of intense deliberation, I cried, "The uterus! The uterus!" I could only imagine having only the head gasket replaced only to find later that the entire head was warped. Then I would have to pay twice since each time required the same amount of labor.
     With my current insurance plan this surgery is going to be quite expensive. I called the hospital ahead of time and asked them if they were running any specials on hysterectomies. "Oh, my. No," was the shocked response. "Well, if you aren't having a sale, do you have a program like they do at the barber school where I can get it done cheaper if I have a student do it?" "Oh no, all of our doctors are fully qualified," they said, horrified. I was beginning to get a little desperate. "Okay, what about financing then? Are there any 0% financing programs coming up? A-Year-Same-As-Cash or anything?" "I'm sorry, Ma'am, this isn't Sears." "Too bad it isn't," I said, "Or I'd get back the core charge when I turn in my old uterus."
     Of course they can't operate immediately, either. First they scheduled a conference with the head mechanic, which has not yet occurred. After that, I must watch a video and sign a ream of paper. The actual operation is probably three months away; there are 12 Trailblazers, 4 dually one-tons , 11 Astro Vans, and 42 Hondas in front of me.


Copyright 2002 by Renee Britt