After owning a round of SUVs that the Hubs was positive would blow up in some form or fashion, we upgraded.
And since I’m sick to death of hearing “it’s gonna blow up,” and I’m likewise sick to death of car shopping, I decided to upgrade how we upgrade. Like, a computer-with-tires kind of upgrade with a complete warranty to boot.
Now, if it blows up, it’s not my problem. At least not for a few years.
For this task, I asked my most introverted friend to drive me to the car lot. I dragged her through the entire process from the meet-and-greet (Car Guy couldn’t even get her name out of her) all the way to the dropping of the keys into my hand.
I wish I’d recorded my friend’s face as I told Car Guy I really only needed one specific button. If he could show me the button, I’d show him the money. This button’s sole responsibility should be to open and close the hatch.
He showed me the button, so I told him I’d take the car. I’d not even test-drove it yet. (I did, I did. I did other due diligence, too, but I had fun with this guy, even to the point of calculating how fast—or slow—one would need to go to avoid the auto-braking safety feature should one want to, ummm, hit something on purpose. To his credit, he did not recommend hitting anything on purpose, but we did come up with 8.5 miles per hour for hypothetical purposes.)
Back to the button: I explained that I truly need this button to stop re-injuring my rotator cuff.
As muscle memory would have it, I can’t remember not to reach above my head to pull shut hatches. That motion causes a fiery riptide in that shoulder. I might have slipped into too-much-information mode and informed him that I also can’t remember not to wipe the table, scoop the litter boxes, or lie with my right arm above my head. Those motions are deeply ingrained, and I’ve had to train myself to protect that painful shoulder.
It was the most fun I ever had car shopping, and I was tickled to death that the SUV came with a full tank of gas.
Even so, I don’t want to do it again for another twenty years. (By that time, Little Miss Muse informs me, cars will fly and I won’t need to know how to drive…)
The muscle memory thing is quite something, though. I push the wrong buttons in my new SUV. I try to turn the thing on and off with the volume knob. This does not work.
I reach for the gearshift in the middle console (where it was located in previous vehicles) and am met with nothing but air. The shifter’s not there. It’s on the steering column where there should be wiper controls. I’ve kicked the thing into neutral twice to get the bug guts off the windshield.
The wiper controls are dangerously close to the bright lights, and all these controls are on the turn signal lever. I’ve flashed (keep your mind out of the gutter), SOS’d, and blinkered at oncoming traffic when all I wanted was bug guts off the windshield.
Today, I thought I was nudging the cruise control to boogie on down the road a little faster, and the volume kept going up on my audiobook.
It’s gonna take a minute to retrain my brain.
It’s also gonna take a minute to become used to the seat buzzers. The first time that safety feature kicked in I honestly thought I was having some bodily glitch. They happen. It’d be the first time for that particular glitch, but all my glitches had a debut, so…
Then it happened with another friend in the car. She did a deep dive into the manual to find out why my butt was being buzzed. Right cheek. Left cheek. Both cheeks. It was a little unnerving. Now I’m used to it and can identify the threat that will make my seat angry.
I can only hope muscle memory will kick in when I return to the [fiction] writing desk. I know how to write. I’ve kept the blogs up through the barrage of life rolls. Sitting down to the manuscript is like sliding into a vehicle I’ve left parked in the drive for too long. The parts are all rusty, but I know how to drive it if we can get it in gear.
Some of the controls are in different places because my head is in a different place than it was two years ago. I’ve written some fiction in that time, but not a lot.
I can’t find the speed control, and the volume is up too high in my head to think some days.
Much like getting into the zone on a long drive where muscle memory does the braking, steering, and controls, I long for that sensation of the keyboard falling away and the “float” of being engrossed in the storytelling, and muscle memory has me covered on the physical act of typing.
“Now, if we can get the writer’s block bug guts off your windshield, we may be able to make some serious progress.” Little Miss Muse thinks for a minute. “Either that, or we need to get tires for this laptop. Or butt buzzers for your seat.”
“I’m not a fan of the seat buzz—”
“Right cheek buzz means sagging word count.” Little Miss is on a roll. “Left cheek buzz means you’ve written past the point. Full butt buzz means you’ve driven headlong into a plot hole.”
She’s rolling on the floor laughing at herself, her tutu sprawled over her head. Glitter flies everywhere.
I wave the air clear in front of me. “I’d be tickled to death if you threw in a full tank of ideas.”
