In Which My Lack of Niceness is Revealed

Despite my ongoing quest for keeping an open mind, I have a little bit of a “thing” against people who drive huge, massive SUVs. Fortunately, for me, this is one area in which prejudice is acceptable, even politically correct these days. I’d like to say I resent them because they represent the worst of American oil-guzzling and because of the effect on the environment and, sure, this is part of it. But I have a sneaky suspicion my distaste for these things also is connected to some kind of deep-seeded dislike for excessive personal wealth (no doubt some kind of genetic predisposition toward communism). Most of all, I hate being bullied on the road and constantly facing the prospect of being squashed like a bug by someone who thinks they need to drive a tank.
So this would be, for me, selfishly, the upside of the hideous gas-price situation; a sense of smug satisfaction when I think about how much it is taking folks to fill up their Durangos/Expeditions/Hummers whatever.
I am aware this is not nice. In fact, it’s not even rationale as my little car doesn’t have particularly good gas mileage.
Most of all it’s a mind-set begging for a universal reaction.
See, I have what we Santa Feans call “bad karma.” Meaning, the minute I do something wrong, the universe tends to rebound. For this reason, I don’t steal, cheat or lie (OK, there are other reasons).
So I figured it was only a matter of time before the Universe took notice of my shitty attitude toward SUV drivers and taught me a lesson.
The lesson came in the form of required auto repairs. My car went in for diagnosis a week ago and, after waiting a week for the parts to come in, the mechanic (at the dealer; thank god for warantees) called and told me to bring it in and he’d been done by the end of the day.
Except, once he’d taken the car apart, he realized one of the parts hadn’t come in and he’d need it overnight. He curtailed my immedate reaction (to complain) by telling me he’d give me a loaner.
Now, if I were an employee of a car dealer, I probably wouldn’t hand some tiny complaining customer the keys to a brand new 35,000 SUV without looking at her license, registration or insurance, but apparently, despite myself, I don’t seem very suspicious to others, because that’s exactly what he did.
I have no doubt this is some kind of ploy, and there is an expectation that when I return to pick up my tiny car, I will be so overcome with the joy of driving 20 miles above traffic that I will demand to purchase said vehicle. But this, friends, ain’t gonna happen. In truth, I feel like a jackass driving this thing (although being higher on the ground than others is a rare and slightly exhilerating experience).
My favorite thing about the SUV is the imbecilic digital dashboard that informs the driver what is going on in the car. Like, for example, the image above, that explains in clear graphics that the AC is blowing on you. In case I was to get distracted (“Oh my God! What is this cold air? Where is it coming from?). There’s an equally stimulating picture of a radio tower when one changes radio stations, you know, to explain radio waves. Too bad there’s not a graphic of a person’s brain being fried and then getting arrested for talking on a cell phone while driving.
It’s early; I can’t believe these are the things I wake up thinking about. Really must get back to yoga.

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