Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
Most of the time, I’m fairly calm. Sweating the small stuff just makes for more laundry, so it’s better to assume the lotus position and remain your jolly self, like Buddha. But he traveled by yak, so worthless car warranties never tested his temper.
Let me back up. Not long ago, I bought a previously owned vehicle from a large, popular dealership. Humble, honest car herders assured me that the one I chose to adopt was hand-raised on a loving lot with many siblings, well-socialized and in robust health. In fact, I was more likely to inherit millions from that internet stranger in Mozambique than have anything go wrong with this popular car.
Still, as loving caretakers, they persuaded me to buy a warranty by locking me in the showroom and withholding food and water until I signed the contract. My metal child would always be covered from bumper to beloved bumper.
You probably know where this is going. Soon after adopting this popular car, the automatic hatch stopped working. From the start, it rumbled like a bad burrito was passing through, but the car herders mistook it for a healthy mechanical sound.
So what? It’s under warranty. I just made an appointment to replace the hatch thing and fix some other “healthy mechanical sounds.” I rearranged meetings, boarded my dogs and coerced a friend to cart me around all day.
When I returned for my baby, the service guys said they got the wrong part for the hatch. Come back some other time, they said. Service guys don’t have to smile or schmooze like car herders, and they don’t apologize. Not checking parts before a customer wastes an entire day is not their fault. Or problem.
I tried to summon some extra Zen by reminding myself how much I hate doing laundry. Calmly, I made a new appointment, scheduled a place for the dogs, got another friend to Uber me and dropped the car off first thing Friday morning.
“It will be ready in three hours,” they said. “We’ll call you.”
Four hours later, no one had called, so I checked in.
“Your car’s ready, but we won’t release it until the warranty company pays us,” they said. “That could happen late today. Or next week.”
Think Buddha, I told myself. Stay calm and process the facts. Fact 1: They sold me the car. Fact 2: They sold me the warranty. Fact 3: This obstacle was never discussed. Fact 4: These idiots are holding my baby hostage.
That’s when the gaskets blew. Not the car’s. Mine.
“Give me my car before I report it stolen,” I politely screamed into the phone. I might have screamed some other things, too.
The small stuff was winning. I’ll bet Buddha never complained to a manager in a loud, hostile manner or let steam pour out his ears.
In all fairness, genetics are against me. I come from a family more closely aligned with Attila the Hun. My brother lost his Zen at a Deepak Chopra retreat—a surprise arranged by his wife. His fists clenched tight as that big vein in his forehead turned blue. “You’re supposed to be meditating,” she scolded. “What is wrong with you?”
His reply? “I’m here to win.”
What can you do? Some people never sweat the small stuff, while others mistake meditation for a sport. Either way, there are no warranties in my future unless the car herders accept my inheritance as payment. Otherwise, I’ll buy a yak.
Jan A. Igoe hates losing it, but extenuating circumstances were beyond her control. Write her at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop. She will be in yoga classes until then.