Guess there was a chance of it happening. After dinner My Father needed my help bringing this 200-year-old (or so he says) wood carving he wanted to donate to MIA into the house after taking it from The Store. And as I was putting my shoes on he came back through the door and asked me, "Do you smell gas around your car?"
Uh-oh. Well, at least I'm not imagining things. I told him that I filled up my gas tank yesterday, and that mollified him. But I know that that smell is going to linger, so the next time he's around the car he's going to know something's wrong with it. Which means I'll have to bring my car in -- not to The Mechanic Around The Corner, but to the place My Father recommends because they will be open Saturday, when I have time.
So why do I feel this sense of freedom? I'm not angry, or mentally scurrying around to find a way to evade My Father's withering accusation. I wanted to wait three weeks and go to this car shop close by, but now I really can't, and now I have to move up my timetable by two weeks, or else My Father will get mad. But I'm not. I think it's because of two things: 1) the anxiety I have waiting those three weeks before I have the use of my parents' minivan is gone because I'll now just have to survive till Friday night; and 2) the choice has been made for me, i.e. I have the choice of doing it this weekend or two weekends from now, but it's obvious that I have to do it this weekend because of My Father. I still have that avoidance of responsibility I need to shake, but I can't deny that I have a weird sense of peace come over me after My Father found about the car.
No comments:
Post a Comment