Nobody likes to move. It’s a pain. It’s slightly less of a pain though, when all of your possessions fit into a 2010 Honda Fit. That’s not a big car. Some would even say it’s a small car. The car industry would call it a compact car…maybe a sub-compact? I’m not in the industry, I don’t know. I do know that all of my worldly possessions fit comfortably inside, ready for a trip to Minneapolis from DC.
Why was I going to Minneapolis? Why does anyone go to Minneapolis?! I went for a girl. It was for a girl that I packed up everything I had into my little blue Fit. Let’s call it my little blueberry. It was for a girl that I quit my job and left my four bedroom Craigslist-strangers-for-roommates apartment. It was for a wonderful girl…so I gladly packed up and went.
It’s about an 18 hour drive from DC to Minneapolis. That’s less than one day. I planned to do it in three. I like to take my time, and more importantly, take a lot of breaks—I enjoy a nice hotel stay. I set out on my journey around noon, by 4pm I was making great time, was almost to Ohio, and was also broken down on the side of the road. My poor blueberry. At least when I broke down it wasn’t a 95 degree July day. I had to call my parents, my girlfriend, and triple A. In that order.
“Remember when I left to start a new life in the Midwest four hours ago, mom? Yeah, that fell apart already. Try not to worry.”
“Hey, baby. Remember that new life we’re starting together in the Midwest? Yeah, the one I just left for four hours ago…I think we might need to break up.”
“Send help. I’ll be the one crying and sun-burnt.”
On the bright side, I literally had my whole life with me in that broken down blueberry. No need to panic, I had supplies. Barring any ambitious highway pirates, I was going to be fine. I also had toys, stuffed animals, and other things that grown men other than me definitely own. I was set. I just had to wait 40 to 50 minutes for Triple A to arrive, and then I’d be on my way…right after finding a garage open on Sunday, having them look at the car, diagnose the car, fix the car, and then have me pretend that I’m not lost.
I did find a garage. They did fix my car. Apparently what had happened was, when you get in a fight with your regular repair shop, back in DC, over a billing issue, they decide not to tighten your oil cap. Loose oil caps tend to shoot off of a car during long road trips, causing oil to spray everywhere and smoke to rise like an odorous phoenix. Probably couldn’t have been avoided. Everything was fine. I paid up at the garage for the costly labor of twisting a cap, and was given the green light to restart my adventure to Minneapolis. I could call my girlfriend and let her know our relationship was back on again! Just one last piece of advice from the garage:
“Go get your car washed. You wouldn’t want all that oil on your car to catch fire…you should be fine until you find one…probably”
No big deal, I thought. A fire would only destroy every last piece of anything that I own before arriving in a brand new city where I know zero people. Plus, I’ve always been a little scared of car washes. The mixture of robotics and water frightens me. I don’t think that’s weird.
I quickly found a car wash, after driving 3 to 4 miles per hour (everyone knows oil can’t catch fire under 5 miles per hour) around a tiny country town. Cleaned off all the oil, or at least convinced myself it was all gone—Placebo effects also work on cars. It was time to hit the road again. Only 80% of the trip to go! What could possibly go wrong?
 There was one thing that didn’t fit: Dumpster stool. RIP Dumpster stool (another blog for another time!).
 This wouldn’t be the first time.
 It was a 96 degree July day.
 It took more like, I’d say 40 to 150 minutes. Who was counting?
 Too hard to remember righty-tighty, lefty loosey.
 I know that’s weird.
 Spoiler alert: Nothing. It was happily ever after.