It is commonly hypothesized that before setting out on a long and arduous journey to the nether regions of the world, one ought to look over his or her vehicle in order to ensure that all of the parts of aforementioned vehicles are functioning properly and in order.

It was on account of this hypothesis that I found myself at Walmart this morning, hunting up and down the automotive aisle to find windshield wipers to replace the rather dilapidated set which had come with my car.

Now this whole process of thinking about cars and doing things with them required a somewhat different kind of brain power than I am accustomed to using in my little library world, and perhaps this is why I began to feel a bit overheated at some point prior to the beginning of the wiper shopping process, but however that may be, I had decided before entering the store that I no longer needed my coat, so I was traipsing around in my shirtsleeves, bemusedly watching these poor Virginians shiver in the sunny, slushy, sloppy weather.

I found the automotive aisle in Walmart, (this was a somewhat momentous event), and with a great deal of much-appreciated and much-needed phone coaching from my awesome dad, I was eventually successful in selecting two black rather rubbery things which looked wiperesque in nature and were apparently of the appropriate size for my car. Step one complete. Check.

Purchase wiper blades. Check.

Find car in parking lot (why on earth does EVERYONE drive white cars?! Makes this step so confusing!). Check.

I decided to put the new wipers on right there in the parking lot, since the sun was out, and the world was happy, and I…was also happy, mostly because I’d found my car.

I managed to get the old wiper blade off of my vehicle, but the instructions on the back of the new wiper blades were somewhat incomprehensible to me. I’d been standing there for several minutes, fiddling with the new wiper, feeling very blonde and very female, and looking inquisitively at certain aspects of the old one with my head cocked thoughtfully to one side, when a friendly middle-aged black dude strolled up with a confident smile.

“Darlin’, are you havin’ some issues?” he laughed, not even waiting for an answer as he took the wiper blade out of my hand. Apparently he’d been watching me struggle for longer than I knew.
I grinned a little sheepishly, and admitted that I was apparently lacking in many of the basic car skills that every competent woman ought to possess (silently vowing to myself to spend a number of hours in the garage with my dad over Christmas break to remedy these grievous deficiencies). He laughed again, and looked at me sideways as he effortlessly snapped the wiper blade onto my car.

“Are you a college girl?”

I nodded.

“Waell, then, I wouldn’t worry about that too much. In college, all most girls know is gas and go.”
“I, uh, know how to check the oil…?” I mumbled, distracted by his apparent proficiency in changing wiper blades.

“Are you a mechanic?” I asked finally, a wee bit envious of his skill.

“Naw, I’ve just been around, lived some life, you know? You’ll get there.” He laughed again, finishing his installation of the second wiper blade. He grabbed an alcohol wipe from his car then, and carefully explained to me that after installing a new set of blades, one should “wipe the rubber coating” off so the windshield won’t streak the first time you use them. I watched in silent admiration, and listened to everything he said, and nodded appreciatively, and thanked him for his time, and marveled to myself at how nice some people will be to a complete stranger.

“Now honey, you just take these old blades, and you throw ‘em away…and for the love of heaven, put a coat on yourself! And you have a nice day.” He gave me an enthusiastic high five, and with that, he was off, smiling, whistling a little under his breath…leaving me behind with a rather broad smile on my face as well…and an armful of trashed windshield wiper blades.

I love my life.