My average number of steps per day is 3,842, but every day I try to go over that number so as to improve my average.
On Thursday, June 6, my daughter used my Jeep to go to Jackson, as it is more reliable than her car. She had to go up there to take documentation to get on her husband’s insurance, and she is now an official military spouse.
I thought to take advantage of being without a car that day and walk to church for Bible study and to Centenary for the MICA board meeting. However, I deemed it entirely too hot, so I drove Kya’s car, which ended up being quite an adventure.
After being used to driving a Jeep, which I have to vault myself up into with a high-jumper’s pole, her Nissan Stanza is very low-slung. (That is a slight exaggeration. However, I do have to leap into the Jeep.)
With the Nissan, my knees were shoved into the dash before I figured out how to push the seat back. Kya is only 4- feet-11 and nearly 100 pounds lighter than I am. My Miller thighs would not fit under the steering wheel. That also took a while to figure out.
Then I sat in her car sweating bullets and trying to figure out how to start it. Nothing as simple as putting the key in the ignition and turning it. Finally, I gave in and called her.
It turned out that you have to put your foot on the brake and press a button by the shift. Finding the button was an adventure in and of itself. It turns out she had applied a black jewel-type thing on top of the start button. (She is much cuter and more extra than I am.) I may or may not have torn up the shiny black decorative cover.
Next, I could not fasten the seat belt, which was fastened behind the driver’s back because it was twisted in the latch thing and I could not pull it out.
However, after I left the MICA meeting, I asked one of the really nice gentlemen working in Libba’s Garden to see if he could pull it out. He did, and I had the safety of a seat belt. Thank you, sir.
Her dashboard thing indicates how many miles are left instead of just showing your gas at low or half a tank or whatever. There were not many miles left, so, being a nice mom, I went to get some gas for her car. I struggled to open the cover of the gas tank until I was afraid it was going to go the way of the black jewel-type starter button cover.
Again, I called her. Nothing as easy as an indented finger-hold on the cover. The little lever that releases the gas tank cover was cleverly hidden near the floor by the driver’s feet.
When I got home, I breathed a sigh of relief and vowed I would not do that again. Of course, I cannot repeat that adventure because I learned a lot about her car. As my license plate says, I LEARN.
