Thursday, May 19, 2011

For some people, the prospect of weekend automobile maintenance is an undertaking to be relished, a soothing way to end a long workweek and tinker with a cherished piece of machinery. It is a ritual that is two parts hobby, one part upkeep, and one part vanity, where a beloved vehicle is polished to a radiance with naught but a jar of Turtle Wax and a raggedy shirt. That’s how it is for some people, anyhow, because I’m absolutely not one of them. In fact, this Friday promises to test the very limits of my sanity.

I have to change my headlights. Technically I only need to replace one of them, but folk wisdom suggests I swap out both, a convenient mythology no doubt perpetuated by the very manufacturers of these bulbs. The last time I had to do this, my car sat in King Calm’s driveway, hood popped, necessary tools splayed on the lawn, and the support of an entire village behind me. Let me explain. What should’ve been a 20-minute ordeal sailed right past minute 90 and counting, when the Swedish bolts secured by Swedish secrets confounded one would-be claimant to automotive prowess after the other. The open car was like flypaper to all the dads on the block, with theories and failed attempts aplenty. How many dudes does it take to change a light bulb? I have empirical data.

There will be no reinforcements this time, though. It will be man versus machine, and I’ve steeled myself by acknowledging how this must be done. I don’t have a choice. Already I’m recalling important factoids about this exercise, like how you shouldn’t touch the glass on these halogen bulbs, even with clean hands, lest trace amounts of skin oil cause them to explode after installation. I guess I forgot about the fucking bomb squad I need for the procedure, never mind the advanced degree in applied physics. But this kind of vehicular know-how is expected of me. It’s a tenet of masculinity, situated roughly in the same realm as knowing what draft beers to order or which inning is best for a field goal.