You're Going to Need a New Transmission

At some point over the weekend, I turned 26 years old. This means that I am officially closer to 50 than I am to my birth.

Yikes.

That is old.

Absurd, you say. That is not old, you say. Why, I remember when I was a young whippersnapper like yourself, making shenanigans at the picture show, you say.

Well, Chevy, here's the thing. It is absolutely true that age is just a number, at least until you hit 30, when it becomes a countdown. At my age, I still have my whole life ahead of me and the world is my oyster and it is mine for the taking and my time is not yet over and I don't need to die bloody and I certainly don't need to pick where yet.

But I'm not sure that's entirely accurate.

You see, I believe more and more with every passing month that bodies are just like cars. And whether that car can still get you from A to B totally depends on how you have mistreated said car.

Me? I feel like I've driven through so many potholes that my suspension is teetering somewhere between broken and almost broken. I have failed to change the oil, I haven't used snow tires, I always drive on an empty tank of gas, I have never rotated the tires and I needed new ones at least ten years ago, I've played chicken and won, and I have never had an oil change. And, to top it off, it took me a couple of years before I realized that it was not an automatic, so now the engine makes weird noises and will often stop for no reason.

So that's where I stand. It's not that 26 is old, it's just that, when you have put this many miles on the odometer, 26 is so many.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to figure out how to get this thing in the shop without having bought any insurance.