Since then, I find myself checking before I get into the car for flat tires and the like, and realized last night after dropping Andy at the airport, that I was nervous something might happen with the car while he was away. Perhaps it's because I didn't buy it, perhaps it's because I spent four blissful years not driving, perhaps it's that marriage has made me seemingly less independant (before, had I a flat tire on my own car, I would have just changed it myself, and did a number of times). It's true that I know next to nothing about our car. It's a Ford; I've never owned an American car. I know that the gas tank is on the wrong side, the gear-shifter works differently, the windsheild wiper controll is goofy, and the headlights turn on with a dial on the left dash. I just assume that under the hood is equally backwards, and live in constant fear that I will be stranded, late, scared, and in danger somewhere, sometime.
I much prefer to be a passenger.
Ahh the hatchback, her most redeeming quality. We moved our SOFA in it.