This Won't Hurt a Bit

I took my care in for an oil change yesterday. It reminded me of my annual physical.

My appointment was at 1:30 p.m. I was there about five minutes early, turned over my car keys, and sat down in the waiting room at exactly 1:30. They didn't actually drive my car onto the rack to service it until 3:23 p.m. (much like the doctor's office, where they make me sit for an hour before someone checks my weight, temperature, and blood pressure, at which time I sit for another half hour before the doctor deigns to arrive). While I was waiting, I finished one book, read several chapters in another, and got so tired of sitting that I stood and paced in the waiting area. (When I made the appointment, I asked if I could get a time after work, so I wouldn't have to leave early. The guy adding me to the schedule insisted that they had to have me there no later than 1:30. Then, in the time-honored (irony, people!) fashion of those who threaten you with losing your turn if you're late, they didn't take my car until nearly two hours after the appointed time.)

The service bay was close enough that I got to watch as a trainee took 45 minutes to add windshield fluid, add transmission fluid, drain & check the oil, air up the tires (even though he didn't know how much pressure they're supposed to have, because it's not listed on the driver's door, as it is with most cars, so that's where he looked), and stick his hand deep into the engine to check something else. All this time, he kept asking questions of his trainer, who was servicing the car next to mine. In the same amount of time, the mechanic on the other side completed oil changes in two cars.

The trainer wasn't much better. At the end, the trainee kept staring at my steering wheel or the control panel, with a puzzled look on his face. The trainer came over and made a gesture, and the trainee shook his head. The trainer then fiddled with something under the hood then looked at the trainee, who shook his head again. This happened three times. Then the trainer got behind the wheel and leaned back in the seat at least ten times, looking at the trainee every few leans, and the trainee kept shaking his head. I don't know what the problem was, but my car got me home last night and to work this morning. I guess my car enjoyed whatever the guy did to my bucket seat.

What disturbed me even more, though, was the cleanliness -- or lack thereof. The trainee had gloves on, I presume to protect his hands from oil, dirt, etc. However, what good does that do the finish of my car when he touches the door handles, steering wheel, and ignition with the same gloves? (I insisted when I paid that they clean everything he touched.) I had the thought that it would be like getting a prostate exam then watching the doctor hand me my pants without taking his gloves off.

Actually, one of the customer service people said that they clean the gloves (supposedly) between servicing the engine and touching the inside. That doesn't make me any more comfortable. In that case, the doctor would check me, wash his hands while wearing the gloves, then hand me my pants. He still has the gloves on! (Side note: so what if hand sanitizers kill 99% of the germs; they don't actually remove the dirt from your hands, do they?)

Finally, this is the first anniversary of my blog, which means it's my birthday (and why I've hidden this at the end of my post). I'm feeling older than usual today, particularly because, the past two mornings, the soundtrack of my dream when I've woken up has been Barry Manilow songs. It's good for my sanity that it was a different song each morning, but what does it say about my age that I have two Manilow songs programmed in my memory?