Up until last week, my husband drove a luxury sedan. He bought the 2001 car several years ago. It was sleek and powerful, had a smooth, comfortable ride, and looked elegant. Right after a car wash, that thing could shine. It was timeless in its masculine elegance.
When it passed 100,000 miles, we nodded our internal heads, knowing it was just on the way to nearing its full potential. Heck, some of these well-made vehicles could easily make 200,000 miles. He was going to keep this gleaming machine for a long, long time.
Last month he drove it over a thousand miles to attend a training program out in the boondocks. He was excited to be making the long drive, anticipating the workshop he’d thought about for years. He’s driving and driving, doing whatever the guy version is of bopping along to great tunes and singing out loud that girls do on road trips, and he noticed something fly off the side of the car. When he arrived at his destination, he figured out which part was missing – some formerly necessary metal component of the rear driver’s side door that fits perfectly where the door normally abuts the car frame. He jury-rigged the solution: he duct taped the missing piece of the door.
Once home, we had our happy reunion, he told me all about his weekend, the workshop, the training, the people he met, what he learned, what he thought he had to offer the other attendees. He was so stoked. I told him all about my weekend, which was primarily filled with parenting, friends and household stuff the way weekends are for the one who doesn’t go on the adventure. He told me many things, but nothing about the car.
A few days later, he told me he was going to check out a new car dealership. A little while back he’d received a promotional letter stating that the dealership was looking, in particular, for his exact make/model/year of car to trade in. Just come in, the letter promised, and we’ll make something happen.
OK. Where to begin on the gender differences here? First off, if a bit of my car blew off as I was careening down the interstate, I’d have pulled off at the first exit. Called my husband. Called Triple A. Freaked a bit. Wondered what it would do to the rest of the car, my safety, the safety of everyone else on the road, to continue to drive without what was, until just that moment, an essential part of the car. I’d have wondered what else might fall off. I’d have wondered that every single mile I drove out. I’d have wondered if the duct tape would last every single mile I drove home. I would still be wondering these things.
I would not have considered using duct tape. I would not have considered asking anyone else for duct tape. I do not think of duct tape.
I would have come home and woven the story of car-bits-flying-off-then-duct-taping-the-remainder into every conversation I had with everyone I knew. I’d have written about it. I would have made my husband come out and look at the duct tape. Look at the car. Reassure me that other metal bits were not going to fly off at any given time. Explain my sense of vulnerability and unsafety in the vehicle. Told him I couldn’t trust it any more. Asked him to come with me to look at new cars. Fretted about the expense and timing, and the way in which duct tape probably lowers trade-in values, and berated myself for not trading it in earlier, when it had a mere 170,000 miles on it, which, in my world, was too high to feel safe at anyway, and I had wondered for months if he should be thinking of getting a new car.
Nope, not him. I’m not sure he would have ever told me if I hadn’t eventually seen it. Given that I usually get in on the passenger side, I might not have ever seen it. I might not have known any of this had I not decided it would be a kind of couple-y thing to do to go with him to see new cars and see if there was any possibility that the promotional letter was going to lead to an actual sale. That’s a perfect weekend couple activity. I invited myself along. He conceded I could come.
I walked around the driver’s side to get in, and then I saw it. The black duct tape matched the car’s black trim perfectly. I ran my fingers across it. “Does your car have duct tape on it?” I immediately asked. “What happened?” Then, and only then, did he tell me.
He told the salesmen we weren’t really in the market for a new car. Just seeing what the promotion was all about. That he’d happily drive off in the current vehicle. No rush, no need to force a sale.
He’s now driving a glacier blue new car that he leased without even test driving. Turns out the duct tape/missing car bits did matter to him. He had lost his own sense of the car’s reliability (although he never lost a sense of his own safety). He jury-rigged the solution to that, too.
Tonight he’s taking me out for the first time in the new car. It’s Friday night, date night, and I’m about to get ready. He just called and told me I should grab a bite to eat without him, as he has been nibbling all day and isn’t actually hungry.
Guys. Girls. Does duct tape work on the formerly essential “nice dinner together” component of date night that just flew off in the wind?