I’m a pathetic excuse for an adult.
I blame my parents for this.
My parents are clearly much smarter and far more talented than me. Thus, they are clearly far more capable of handling all this tricky stuff I’m supposed to do myself now as an adult.
Tricky stuff for me pretty much includes anything with cars, computers, money, any sort of insurance, anything with a bunch of numbers and anything that is broken and needs to be fixed.
I’m not very good at these things so inevitably I call my parents for advice or just forward them all the papers with incomprehensible and scary numbers.
In this way, I’m quite possibly the world’s worst daughter.
But occasionally, I actually attempt to follow-through on my parents’ handy-dandy advice.
Today was one such occasion.
The occasion was I killed my car. Or at least I thought I had, because for some reason my car just decided it didn’t want to drive anywhere. This obviously wasn’t ideal as I usually prefer to be able to drive my car somewhere and not just sit around in the parking lot listening to it idling but refusing to move.
Anyway, my beloved Toyota decided it didn’t want to leave the gas pump after I was done getting gas, or in fact, ever. It just kind of turned on and sat there indiginantly while I sat there feeling like an idiot.
As I don’t have any actual automotive knowledge to fall back on, I did the only thing I could think of aside from asking the old man parked next to me for help, I just turned my car on and off again. Thankfully, this worked, because if it hadn’t, I’m not quite sure what I would have done. Turning my car on and off again, is pretty much my go-to in any situation where my car doesn’t work.
I say this tactic worked because my car got me back to my apartment. But in terms of being a fully-functioning automobile, I’m fairly sure my dear Camry isn’t quite there.
Which is why I turned to my dad for help and pretty much made myself sound like an idiot.
Whenever I have a car problem I usually describe my car as “sounding funny” or “acting funny”. According to my dad, both of these descriptors leave a lot to be desired, for instance, any sort of useful information. As it turns out, “sounding funny” isn’t very helpful to a man trying to idenfity the offending car problem from 4 hours away.
But usually,through some sort of weird father-daughter telepathy, my dad is able to decode my incompetent car-speak and some up with a solution. From here, my dad is forced to explain it to me in layman means such as “buy the yellow bottle in the automotive department at Wal-Mart. If you can’t figure it out, call me.”
As usual, this advice was helpful and I was able to find the above mentioned yellow bottle all by myself, but then my semi-self-sufficient self was shot down by the Wal-Mart cashier.
It’s very discouraging when you’re attempting to be all mature and car-fixing and the cashier ID’s you for your car-fixing materials.
“You have to be 18 for this,” she said as she waited for me to scavenge through my purse for my ID.
Apparently this whole “I’m a sorry excuse for an adult” thing must be more noticeable than I thought…