The Labor of Love

As I climbed into my beloved BMW E30, the guilt trip began before the journey started.  It happens every time I walk past.  Rarely does it escalate into anything more than a slight nag, but occasionally we’ll have it out.
“Why are you ignoring me?”

“Ignore you?!  How can you even suggest that?”

“I don’t feel loved.”

“I drive you.  I wash you.  I completely rebuilt your suspension.  AND interior!  I just flushed your brakes.  I changed all of your fluids.  I even put Swepco in your gearbox and Amsoil in your differential, for crying out loud!”*

“I know.  And I appreciate all of your work.”

“So why do you say I’m ignoring you?”

“When was the last time you touched me?”

I pause and try to remember.  It has been too long…far too long.  When I wash it, I take it to the local car wash.  It is not that I’m lazy; it’s just that my home has the water pressure equal to that of an elderly man at a rest stop urinal.  I attempt to justify my choice by using the foaming brush, but it never gets the car as clean as washing it with a bucket and sponge.  The intimacy is gone.

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