It is regularly many, many degrees below zero here and, well, I am a wuss: starting my car in the morning is not my favorite way to begin the day. Totally a first world problem, as they say, but real enough to me.
I don’t want to go from warm woolen slippers to cold rubber boots, soft fleece bathrobe to stiff bulky Carhartt just for the 30 seconds it takes to go start the car. And then there is the whole wet hair issue. Didn’t your grandmother tell you people die from going out with wet heads? Well, mine did. And we know I did everything she told me to. (Family: HUSH)
What? Hairdryer, you say?
Sorry, it ruins my ‘do.
For my birthday last year I got a card and the promise of a remote starter. Yes!
Ahem. Another birthday has passed now. Still no starter. Well, not one a mechanic had to install, anyway. Every morning when my movements become increasingly staccato my gallant gentleman of a husband pulls on his boots and coat, risks his fingers by delving into my purse for the key and then starts the car.
Life is good.
Now for where this first world problem intersects with, well, other worlds. You see, every morning in suburban neighborhoods across the northern half of this nation, cars warm up for several minutes all around cul de sacs. Moms hustle children into them, wave at one another and zoom off into their day.
Here, the sound of the engine starting is a modern cow bell. Reddy and Set, our calves destined to be an ox team, come running. So while puffs of exhaust chase soccer mom SUVs off to school, these two are having breakfast between me and my car. I may have to sidestep cow pies, but my hair is dry, my car is warm and no matter what there won’t be traffic. Alleluia!
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