Alright, now y’all don’t need to go gettin’ your panties in a wad.
I’m well aware that what I pulled this morning is not a universal misstep.
I know there are tons of women out there that know cars, and mechanical issues, and what you’d need to give an officer if you ever got pulled over.
But you must also aware of the stereotype which portrays women as clueless when it comes to these same issues.
Surely you’ve have watched enough movies and heard enough jokes by now to know that these topics aren’t often kind regarding those of the female persuasion.
And for those of you who feel angered and wronged by such injustices, let me tell you…
I was no help to your cause this morning.
Not one little bit.
So, Here’s What Happened
In North Carolina you have to have your vehicle inspected annually in order to renew your tags.
My husband, for whatever illegitimate reasons he may have had, put his faith in me and believed that I was up to carrying out this task.
He thought through this thoroughly and thusly sent me down to the most redneck mechanic shop you could hope to find this side of the smokey mountains.
I pulled up and stepped inside to inquire who I should speak with, and in doing so was surrounded by about six country boys who, when I asked where the line started, openly admitted they were simply loitering with nothing better to do.
Nothing like feeling watched and put on the spot.
I told the lady at the counter that my husband had called ahead and I was there for an inspection.
One of the men standing there kindly pointed me to the next building over and told me to pull up at the garage doors and wait. Someone would be with me soon.
I followed these orders and soon the garage door opened and out came a short, scruffy mechanic. There was no greeting. No smile. There were no questions. Just one gruff word.
“Registration.”
“Ummm… registration?” I repeated. I could feel my heart rate climbing.
“Uh, yeah?” He was obviously annoyed.
“You– um, you need to see my registration?” I asked. Dumb question but I was stalling and so hoping he was going to say no.
“Yes.”
Dang it.
Now you might be wondering why that was a big deal?
Well, you’ll probably be ashamed and shocked to know that I didn’t know what that was.
And I know, I know, when you get pulled over, you hear, “License and and registration, please.”
But y’all, it’s been a loooooooooooong time since I was last pulled over. Like ten years or something. That’s not a humble brag. I mean, I’m no speed demon, but I’ve definitely gone 65 in a 55 and for whatever reason, just haven’t passed a cop with the time of day to pull me over. (I’m apologizing now to my retired, state trooper grandfather who is sure to see this).
But whenever I watch some video online of some poor soul getting pulled over, I hear the word “registration”, and keep thinking I need to figure out what that is in case I ever need it.
But did I actually pursue the answer to that question? No. No, I didn’t.
And now my decision had come back to bite me in my proverbial booty.
So, what was my independent, girl power, “I got this!” reply?
“Oh! Ummm, ok. My husband didn’t tell me I needed that.”
The mechanic just stared blankly as I began to do some serious rummaging in the glove compartment, red faced and mumbling how I didn’t even know what it looked like.
Yes, I said that out loud.
Don’t be judgy.
Without turning around to see if he was still waiting, I called my husband, frazzled and frustrated.
I quickly made it clear that I was mad at him for the fact that I don’t know what our registration looked like or that I would need it and it was all so obviously and totally his fault.
He seemed quite baffled. No idea why.
At last I sat back in defeat and told the mechanic guy that I would have to come back later as my registration (whatever that was) was nowhere to be found. He shook his head with a small grin, and said that was fine. I couldn’t tell if he was attempting to be understanding… or if he was laughing at me.
The moment he disappeared from sight, I decided to take one more wack at it, praying that maybe the missing item was a rainbow colored piece of paper that said REGISTRATION in big red letters. Super easy to spot.
Well, it surely wasn’t that, but after another few moments, I finally found the dumb registration.
Then it was time to to walk the walk of shame back to the counter where the afore bunch of country boys were still loitering, when I received an inquisitive look from the lady at the counter…
I had to explain that I’d finally found my registration but I’d now lost my mechanic.
“Well, I bet he went on back in inside! It’s cold out thar today!”
After a few awkward moments of tossing the problem around, finally someone offered to find him.
Mr. Grumpy Mechanic soon returned. I handed him my registration, apologizing profusely, offering the lame excuse that OBVIOUSLY this was normally my husband’s job.
He didn’t give any sort of reply but to take the registration and mutter, “Alright, now I need the mileage.” He looked at me, seemingly skeptical that I would know how to find it.
But ha! I knew that one!
He then asked me to pop the hood with the same doubtful glance.
Dang it… where was the button thingy for that????
But as providence would have it, I quickly found and pulled the lever, striving to maintain a face of steadfast confidence.
Thankfully, the process was over quickly, he handed me a receipt and walked away with no further word of instruction.
Glad to be done with it, I nearly pulled out and raced home.
But then I realized, this process probably wasn’t free. I checked the receipt for the cost of services and sighed as I realized that now I had to head back to country boy counter for the third time in ten minutes.
But at least I realized it then, rather than having to come back later to apologize for shoplifted services…
My embarrassment would have been complete.
Moral of the Story
I have no idea, y’all.
What do I learn from this???
What helpful lessons can I share???
Maybe when I realize there’s something I don’t know that could be of some importance, I should take initiative to learn more before my ignorance is unavoidably revealed.
Or maybe I should have tried harder to get pulled over more often so I would have had more practice at finding my registration.
Maybe I should have taken more pride in breaking stereotypes of the fairer sex.
Maybe I should have carried my cluelessness with a bit more confidence.
Maybe I shouldn’t care half so much what country boys and scruffy mechanics think about mini van mamas who don’t have time to care about such details.
Yeah, who really knows what’s to be learned here?
But of this one thing I am abundantly sure… I made the feminists proud today.
Just so stinkin’ proud.
My Family Freedom 