ArcaMax

I'm the wifely stereotype in one aspect: I'm the one in the relationship who lets their car decay and slightly hides it from their spouse for as long as they can. Just until we have to swap cars because his gets better gas mileage for a trip. That's when I have to spill the beans: My heater stopped working, the brakes have gotten squeakier, and certain plastic parts fell off that I may have just chucked into the back.

Coming back from the trip, I asked my kids on our ride to school how their dad had treated my old lady while I was gone. My daughter admitted that Betsy was certainly more squeaky with him driving. I told her, "Yep, I know how to be kinder and... adapt to her groans."

I do give a slight heads-up, especially as a preparation for the trip. What might my husband need to know as he slides the car seat back from my up-close and personal windshield position? What isn't there that was before? What might launch him into gasps of dismay as he drives?

I texted, "Hey... just so you know... my heater... doesn't do the things... anymore."

This usually elicits action, not as a text, but as a quick Google parts search. Prior to the last trip, my text was about how Betsy likes to shudder in the cold in the mornings and show me a snowflake sign. A terse reply came back: "That's spark plugs I should probably change."

And he did.

So, back in the car with my kids, I realized my heater was working again. I asked them if he had fixed it in the one day I had been gone, which seemed impossible. They didn't know. I texted him, "Did you fix my heater?" He replied, "No. Maybe I just turned it off and back on again."

I laughed and exhaled a "phew."

Betsy is a hand-me-down luxury car from his parents, so every routine fix is going to cost a paycheck because of the brand. She's "only" 13 years old, but in dog years -- somewhat more relatable to car years -- she would prefer shuttling me to brunch and not sitting in the stop-and-go school pickup line. She does not approve of the roughhousing and crumbs in her backseat. She enjoys sitting with the other SUVs in Target and absolutely demands Starbucks when I get gas instead of Dunkin-grade gasoline.

She's seen some things. She's had her heart broken. She's letting her grays grow out. But she remembers when she rode the road and heads would turn. She's wistful when she thinks of that. It wasn't arrogance; no, not like an Audi, but the recognized strength of German engineering.

Sure, Betsy, let's get you that premium gas and park you back at the house. You can't relate to those Teslas. Yes, Bluetooth was state-of-the-art, and, no, you're right, you don't need a tablet to operate.

"I understand," I tell her mentally, "but here's the thing: We're so close to getting you a discount for early dinners at Denny's. We can do this together." The snowflake light shuts off, and a last shudder pops off a plastic tab on the console I dutifully pop back into place. Then we drive to the pick-up line together.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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