“What fools indeed we morals are

To lavish care upon a Car,

With ne’er a bit of time to see

About our own machinery!”

— John Kendrick Bangs

Well, I didn’t want to leave you hanging after last week’s column, and I’m sure for some of you it was probably a little too much information, still I’m happy to report that my physical worked out fine and now my only pain in my butt is the fact that I am still waiting to get my car finished with its inspection.

OK, full disclosure, I know nothing about cars; never have, never will, but I had a feeling she needed to be looked at since the “check engine” light has been flashing like an ocean beacon for the past three months now. In case you were wondering why I said “she” it is because, yes, I consider my car to be a female.

I don’t know why I have always considered my cars to have a bit of the female persuasion. Perhaps it’s because, like women, when there is a problem, they both start whining, and making noises I usually can’t understand. Which begs the question: Why can’t girlfriends come with mufflers — or at least a warranty? Imagine waking up one morning to find that brunettes have been recalled. (Just kidding).

Moving on.

The turning point in my auto relationship came when I could no longer drown out the engine noise with the stereo. Yep, I’m that guy. My lack of mechanical skills leaves me with the only available option I know: turning up the radio until I can no longer hear any problems coming from the car at all.

So far, this practice has worked out pretty good. Until last Monday. I got in, put the key in the ignition and then ... nothing. So, I did the only reasonable thing any man would do in such a troubled relationship — I begged. When that didn’t improve the situation I put my head on the steering wheel and sighed. After a few futile turns of the key as well as a couple of choice words that I won’t repeat here, I came to grips with the fact that the car wasn’t going to start and I made the call for the tow truck.

Was I angry? Not really. After all the inspection was due this month. No, I was more upset knowing that now something would have to be fixed which means that I’d have to spend money on another costly repair. It’s not that I’m cheap, just broke. There’s a difference.

Women talk about having to “endure” labor, but men, we have labor pains, too, just in a different way. So far I’m up to 40 hours and there will be no epidural for when I have to write that check. Maybe if I try some of that deep breathing it will be easier. I don’t know how this story will end as my car is still in the shop but what I have learned from this whole experience is this... asphalt makes the heart grow fonder.

Auburn native Bradley Molloy’s column appears here, each

Sunday. He can be reached at lovonian@hotmail.com