To top it all, you're also up to give him a foot massage, only glad that he accepts and just to see him purr with pleasure in your skilled hands. All is well if he's happy because that means that you're happy and life is beautiful, consequently.
No, don't try to change him. That's not what I meant. We don't choose love, it chooses us. And a great love starts small but it's then getting built just like building a home. Each small gesture, single look, trip to the market, handshake, long nights of talking, minute after minute it grows and rounds itself like a mother's pregnant belly.
You're going to say that the love I'm talking about lasts for a life time, but I beg to differ. When you're certain that it's ripe and you're sure about its fruit, you should think that it's time to start over. The ones who have marketing studies will get what I mean. A product will grow steadily until it reaches maturity, and then, when you love it the most for its impressive sales numbers, you have to improve it or else the market will already become bored with it. Each day you have to start over!
Ho do I know all this stuff? From the daily life near my boyfriend. No, not from our life as couple, but from the life of another couple: him and his car. He loves it more than life. I know that because every morning he carefully observes it in the parking lot. Three laps around it mean the car is OK, there is no zit on it and no speck of dust has dared to change its make-up. If that ever happens it gets erased on the second lap anyway.
After that the car gets cleaned from all the flyers resting on the windshield, most of them with pizza offers or inviting belly dancers; this is also a good lesson for the ones who practice marketing by flyers, so remember: you are driving your potential customers mad by touching their cars and your flyers are inevitably ending in the trash bin.
Then he gets at the wheel with a worrying look on his face. I ask him: Is there something wrong? He answers: Nah, I'm just thinking 'bout my car, like every other dude! I remain silent and leave him with five minutes of not saying a word. Actually, no! Not even five minutes pass and the car starts asking for things. She needs wiper fluid! After not receiving any for the first three seconds it starts to scream again, louder, while flashing a yellow LED on the dashboard. So the man steps out of it and he meticulously quenches its thirst.
A minimum of five minutes passes since he also wipes the car here and there, especially around the little mouth which absorbs several liters at a time, like a very large sponge. He casually mentions something about how the stupid manufacturers are to blame for not thinking and for the fact that the car is soaking wet now!
Finally, we hit the road! What do I see on the dashboard at the first red light? A small LED drawing, also yellow, depicting a fuel pump. What do you know, it's running out of gas, and in the next second it starts screaming again. Each and very second the distance we could manage to drive with the gas that is left is changing. We get a little scared because in our city traffic is more than hellish, we're rolling with about 4 kilometers per hour (2.5 mph) and there's approximately 7 kilometers (4 miles) to our work office.
So we turn around and we hit the closest gas station. He fills it up and then we stay a while just for choosing the most appropriate wiper solution because the old one has just been depleted! He then cleans the front and rear windshields, the headlights and the mirrors. Perfect! We pay and start heading for our destination.
We both startle. It does another short scream. Oh, what she want now, oil? It drink quite a lot of it, about every 7.000 kilometers (4.000 miles). We don't have any on us. The man fills a note in his smartphone: oil check, should visit the service! He also calls for an appointment! It screams again and then gets quiet. It's not the oil. It wasn't detecting the key in the man's pocket. It happens. We start. Brake! He gets down because he didn't properly secure the wiper fluid container and it's making all kinds of noises in the back.
Since we're going to visit the service anyway, I use my soft-spoken voice to remind him that the rear tires also need changing. Because of the random dangerous curves taken with too much speed they have worn out and now the car is aqua-planning. Also at 7,000 kilometers (4,000 miles). They cost as much as a boob-job on the Californian coast, but does it matter? What matters more than its happiness?
Today is a really unlucky day. We're driving on a road that's under construction and the only nail on the street cuts through one of the tires. We pull over and we call. Nobody comes. We get to work and change the flat tire. An hour and a half of torture. It unsatisfyingly gets on the jack, he's fighting to get the reserve under the trunk out. I massage him in stages and he's only thinking about the car! Will it take us to the next service station? I ask him if he wants water and he screams at me that he'll have some AFTER he's finished the job and the car is staying on all fours.
I won't tell you the ending since it doesn't actually matter. I end up at the office with my make-up on and very jittery, he's dirty but happy. The car is parked in its regular spot! What's the conclusion? When you love, you're no longer deciding for yourself.
He loves it because it has good visibility, I hate it because the size of the windshield means extra stops for wiper fluid.
He loves it because it has a V8, I hate it because almost every day means another visit to the gas pump and that makes me sick.
He loves it because the engine purrs a symphonic tune, I hate it because oil has to be changed more often than I go to the stylist. And it also needs appointments and re-appointments, which are more difficult to obtain than those at the highest class spa in town.
He loves it because it's an unmanageable race horse, I hate it for every set of changed tires, which are the equivalent of a non-disclosed number of Manolo Blahnik.
He loves it because its leather makes funny noises under his jeans, I hate it because it needs more creams than a goddamn cellulite.
He loves it because it's smart and it brakes perfectly, I hate it because ceramic brakes are the equivalent of an exotic vacation, a black Prada dress, an entire collection of Moschino jeans, a Hermes Birkin hand bag, a custom made perfume for me, or all of them put together. I take his word for it and I also step on the brakes without actually touching them from the passenger seat. I stop at every traffic light.
I won't tell you why he loves it any longer because I feel that it's taking advantage of him and I hate it even more. This is just so you know how his mother is feeling when he confesses her how much he loves you!
No, I'm not thinking to persuade him to change it. This is not what I meant. Who am I to oppose to such love? Women, men – we are all love's slaves. Nothing moves without love, not even cars. I think love stands at the origin of humanity. The origin of all things. Love, in any shape or form.
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