You had better be sitting down for this. The other day I heard on the radio that some new study (conducted for God only knows what reason except to drive mothers crazy all over America) showed that there are more germs on the steering wheel of your car than on the seat of a public toilet!
Oh please, People! Is nothing sacred anymore? Naturally I was in my vehicle at the time I heard this crucial bulletin – holding on to said disgusting, germ-laden steering wheel. Of course I did what any sane and rational driver would do in this situation. I screamed, “Eeeeeeyyyyewww!!!” and proceeded to swerve wildly into oncoming traffic while spontaneously detaching both hands from the wheel.
Well, no, I just made that up. Suffice to say that’s what I would like to have done had I not been rolling rapidly north in the midst of freeway traffic at the time. But I admit I loosened my grip on the wheel just a bit in an effort to put a little distance between me and certain death from microbe contamination.
This revolting revelation came at an interesting time at our house because we were in the process of selling two of our vehicles, and this new wrinkle added a whole new dimension, which I will explain in a minute.
Recently we purchased a couple of new vehicles because the ones we were driving were waaaaaaayy past their prime. In fact, if there was such a thing as an old age home for cars, our vehicles would be charter members. We purchase a truck or automobile and tend to hang on to them forever. We get pretty attached to them, even. And, ok, don’t tell me you’ve never done this – after awhile I begin referring to our automobiles by cute pet names. And this is all fine and dandy until one day you realize – unlike children – your car never grows up and leaves home but pretty much hangs around and begins to rust and fall apart. Kind of like, well…us. So we decided there was nothing to do but to put the two old-timers up for sale and see what happened.
My spouse’s SUV was a big, lumbering hunk of metal that, I suspect, contained its own gravity field. Parked next to “Big Bubba,” my sporty little car barely reached up to its wheel well. In fact, I was secretly alarmed whenever I drove my car behind my spouse’s vehicle for fear we’d be sucked up into the exhaust and never be seen again.
But old Bubba was the love of my spouse’s life. Every Saturday – unless it was pouring buckets – he was out on the driveway giving it a good scrubbing. When he was finished you could have performed brain surgery on Bubba’s hood.
“If you paid that much attention to me,” I would grumble, “we’d win the prize for happiest couple in the universe.”
But old Bubba was a trooper, transporting my spouse to golf games and bike rides and all sorts of fun endeavors while I was more inclined to drag him shopping or out to dinner – so I guess I get the attraction.
Finally Bubba was all shined up for the final time and ready to receive visitors. Soon thereafter a guy showed up who found Bubba on the internet and lo and behold – Bubba had a new home. So we waved fondly at our old friend as it pulled out of our driveway for the very last time. And then it was my turn.
So let me just say that few people in my life have seen me through the kind of mileage that my sleek little car has maneuvered me through during the past ten years or so. The same turquoise color of the ocean with a streamlined profile, her peppy engine hummed as we zipped about, downshifting with the best of them. Our outings together were fun and frequent, but eventually we would slip back down our driveway and into the garage. Nestled into her parking spot, I’d fondly pat her sassy little fender as I passed by on my way back into the house.Â
And we’d have lived on happily ever after, but her miles had crept up, and we knew that before too much longer we’d be funding a new wing for our trusty mechanic’s garage. Not to mention I was by now accustomed to driving my roomier new vehicle with the silky-smooth ride, and suddenly I found myself – gasp! – disillusioned with my zippy little car. Getting in and out of its low-to-the-ground body style, for example, was beginning to require the aid of heavy lifting equipment. And the rapid acceleration and stiff sports car frame was loosening a few of my teeth. So I finally acquiesced and agreed to sell my feisty little friend.
That brings me back to the repugnant news about the steering wheel. We polished my car, vacuumed the interior, and produced a spread sheet of her maintenance record for the last ten years. And the other day, somebody came to our home and announced he plans to buy my baby.
We told him her engine likes to be warmed up gently in the morning, but takes virtually no oil and that before too long she may need a new clutch. But I’ll be darned if I’m going to tell him the grim news about her germ-infested steering wheel!
Gale Hammond is a 23-year Morgan Hill resident. Reach her at
Ga*********@ao*.com
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