Today I had a moment with my car.  She is at that age where she is “mature,” which sometimes means I have to change bulbs and things.  That’s always fun[1] with a German-English-Brazilian car whose design is based on a car that doesn’t really work.

This time it was a headlight, which is both a blessing and a curse.  The blessing is that the headlight is actually one of the lights I can, in theory, change myself.  (The taillight requires two trips to my beloved mechanic, whose brilliance and patience are surpassed only by his generosity toward me.)  I have changed a headlight before, but it took most of an afternoon to figure out 1) which of the little plastic compartments held the correct bulb, and 2) how to get the correct bulb out of the bulb holder.  Each of those tasks involved at least 20 steps that were seemingly as complex as building a nuclear reactor out of Legos.

Since I had done this before, I figured I could do it in the parking lot of Auto Zone…in a dress…right?  Wrong.  I found the right compartment, broke at least one plastic clampy thing, and the bulb was still firmly planted in its ridiculously complex and sharp-edged bulb holder.

I gave up, figuring that maybe I should go home, have a snack, change clothes, and stare at it in the comfort of my own driveway before deciding to swing by to see my mechanic in the morning.  I shut the hood, got in the car, and noticed in the reflection of the storefront that both headlights were on.

I’m pretty sure my car was telling me something about the rest of my life, but I’m going to leave you to draw your own conclusions.