When I was young, I was taught to be kind, polite and avoid disappointing others. But I’ve learned (the hard way) that trying to constantly please other people by saying YES to their sometimes unappealing invitations and requests can lead to rather awkward moments. I am hardwired to be a people pleaser. In fact I once took off (almost) all my clothes in public – just to avoid disappointing the crowd that had assembled to see me humiliate myself. Don’t believe me? Well, it’s true.
I tend to say Yes to most invitations, even when I really want to say No. Not long ago I received an invitation to attend a fundraising event to save – I honestly can’t recall the critter – let’s say the Western Spotted Otter – when what I really wanted to do was lie on my couch and watch football. (I’m confident my $25 donation helped save a few spotted otters.) Maybe it’s just as well I attended the boring fundraiser, as my team lost in overtime.
Every week I’m confronted with situations in which I say, “Sure, I’d be happy to… Attend your party / Donate to your cause / Read that 500-page book you insist on lending to me / Fill out your 80-question survey / Feed your cats while you’re away for two weeks,” etc… when what I really want to do is give them a more HONEST RESPONSE. I’ll explain with a few slightly altered examples that are all eerily close to actual invitations I’ve received.
A friend invited me:“Tim, a group of us are going on a 3,000-ft. elevation gain hike up Mount YulNevaMaykit (okay, so I made up the mountain’s name – I think it was actually called Mount KillaMeNow). We plan to stop at an Iranian-Vietnamese restaurant on the way home. I know this place that makes the best fried chicken testicle soup.”
My actual response: “Gosh, that sounds like fun. Thanks for inviting me. My calendar looks clear. Hey, do you think that restaurant might have a Caesar salad?”(I’m a bit of a picky eater.)
What I wanted to say as an Honest Response:Let me get this straight. You want to inflict pain and suffering on me over several hours, only to “reward” me with a dish so disgusting that it would make my cat vomit? How long have you secretly harbored a death wish for me?”
My friend: “I’ve got a great investment opportunity – if you have just $20K to put down.” Me: “Gosh, I would love to. But I can’t afford to right now. Thanks for thinking of me.” Honest Response: “Are you on crack? Seriously? Are you? Did you mistake me for Warren Buffett’s nephew? How about I invest $7.00 for a Starbucks skinny no foam latte instead?”
A relative of mine texted me:“Heard this fascinating podcast about Robert F. Kennedy Jr. He makes a lot of sense. You should really listen to it. He has some innovative ideas about how we can live to 150 by banning all vaccines and adhering to a strict diet of cauliflower, oysters, and tobacco-onion juice. The audio interview is two hours long but it goes by fast.”
My actual response:“Thanks for this. I will try to watch it in the next day or two. I have been curious about Robert F. Kennedy Jr. I had thought he was a bit of a kook, but maybe I’ve judged him unfairly.”
My Honest Response:“Thanks for this. I was looking for a way to help me get to sleep faster. This looks like just the ticket. Ever since you first voted for Trump, I was concerned you’d lost your mind. And your most recent text officially confirms it. If you never hear from me again, don’t worry. It just means I’ve blocked you on every device I own.”
An acquaintance emailed me: “Tim, as a humor writer, I thought you’d get a kick out of a humorous play I wrote that I think is hilarious. It’s based on the time my cat tried to eat some geraniums I bought for my wife. Then it threw up on her lap. What a riot. Can you read my manuscript and give me suggestions on any tweaks you might recommend? Do you think I should submit it to The New Yorker? Or the New York Times?”
My actual response:“Nick, I am honored you’d like me to read your play. What a hysterical premise. A cat throwing up. I don’t know if that’s ever been written about.”
My Honest Response: “Nick, you asked me for suggestions. Here’s one: Never even think about writing a humorous play ever again. Miraculously I’ve somehow survived to page 75. At what point does the humor start? I totally think you should send this to both publications – along with a sincere apology cover letter for wasting their time. Does this help?”
A friend named called to ask: “Tim, my daughter Empress is going to turn 23 next month. I’d like to help her celebrate this milestone birthday by throwing her an epic music festival in our backyard with some local rock bands. I’m asking guests to donate $150 to help make this a birthday Empress will never forget. I think a music festival is just the kind of therapy that will help her overcome the funk she’s been in ever since she failed to realize her dream of becoming a TikTok influencer with five million followers. Can I put you down as a YES?”
My Actual Response:“Wow, what an exciting day you have planned. I would love to attend but I’ll be out of town that weekend. But thanks for the invite, Jill.” (You didn’t actually think I’d say YES to such an insane invitation, did you?)
My Honest Response:“Um, Jill, first of all, 23 is not exactly a milestone birthday. Second, Empress? Who names their kid Empress? Was the name Queen Aphrodite already taken? Third, I really believe you need to think much BIGGER if you want to impress your darling Empress. I recommend asking each person to donate $5,000 in bitcoin. If you get a mere 200 suckers people to say yes, you probably can convince Elton John to come out of retirement and perform. And doesn’t your little social media drama queen deserve it?”
LinkedIn Recruiter: “Tim, I saw your profile on LI. You look like you’d be a great fit for this job.” Me: “Thank you very much. Actually, I’m retired. But if I think of anyone, I’ll let you know.” Honest Response: “Do you need glasses? Because you apparently failed to read my LI headline, where it reads, “RETIRED.” Besides, my PT job as a Walmart greeter keeps me very fulfilled and busy.
Of course, the next time someone texts me insisting I watch a “must-see” four-part PBS documentary series titled “Comic Sans – The Forgotten Font”, I won’t insult them with a snide, sarcastic, but honest reply. Knowing me, I’ll send back my usual, polite response: “Thank you so much for thinking of me. Sounds amazing!” – right before I press the DELETE button.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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One of the many unexpected aspects of being married to my lovely wife is the frequent opportunities to demonstrate my patience, by which I mean WAITING… and WAITING… and WAITING. But the reasons I have to wait are not what you think.
A common complaint of many husbands is having to wait for their wives. Waiting as she picks out an outfit; waiting for her to finish putting on makeup; waiting in the store for her to pick out the perfect lamp for the living room. Waiting at the hospital while she takes forever to deliver their baby.
You will never hear me make any such complaints about my wife – although there was that one time when I got a flat tire. It took her forever to jack up the car and put on the spare. I got so bored waiting for her to finish. A guy can only play Solitaire on their phone so many times before it gets repetitive.
The truth is, in most aspects of our wonderful life together, my wife rarely makes me wait. She can be very decisive. What I’m not quite as fond of is the way my dear wife takes FOREVER whenever we are visiting an interesting place, particularly one that has a lot of incredible scenery or fascinating history. Once there, if we see ANYTHING REMOTELY WORTH TAKING A PHOTO OF, well, that’s when the problems begin. Did I mention my wife is an artist? She does oil paintings of landscapes – mountains, flowers, birds, seashores, and interesting architecture. She is very accomplished and well known for her artwork.
Because of her passion for her art, whenever we take a hike to check out, say a pristine lake or some lovely beach or a historic castle or a cathedral or a heron sitting on a log, my wife has an uncontrollable impulse to take several photographs. Let me clarify. When I say, “take several photographs,” I don’t mean three or four photos of the very same thing. That’s what a normal person might do. My wife is not normal. No, she’ll take three or four DOZEN photos of the very same thing. Why does she obsess over getting the perfect shot? She claims it’s so she can make oil paintings from her photos.
Recently we took a stroll along a beach near our home. She loved the way the sunlight reflected off the waves as they lapped along the shore. I’ll admit it was a lovely, tranquil maritime setting. That’s why I took two photos… and my wife took 125. She kept on clicking over and over. Thirty years ago, when people used film to take pictures, my wife knew that each snap of the camera’s shutter cost money to develop. So, she was conservative in her click-count.
Thanks to the age of digital cameras, she can now take a myriad of shots, and they’re all free. Whoever invented the digital camera, that person has seriously threatened our marriage and my sanity. That’s because my wife sees nothing wrong with spending hours photographing every possible nuance of a babbling brook, while I sit around waiting for her to run out of steam. She never does. She’s the Energizer Bunny of taking pictures.
My wife is a gifted artist. She paints landscapes in oil of the natural beauty near where we live. Just one problem. She is forever in search of the PERFECT SHOT!
One time we were on vacation in Rome when we decided to explore the famous Coliseum. Big mistake. My wife stopped every ten feet to take fifteen to twenty photos of the very same building from a slightly different angle, apparently in pursuit of a Pulitzer-Prize-winning photograph. If you’re curious as to which of the 800+ photos she took of this ancient Roman ruin she ultimately used to paint from, the correct answer would be none of them. She decided not to do a painting – probably because she was sure she would have better luck clicking hundreds of photos of the canals of Venice or a row of Vespa scooters in Milan.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my wife. And her landscape paintings are truly amazing. But I have seen glaciers crawl forward in less time than it takes for her to finish taking photos of, say, a crawling glacier. I’ve learned to accept this peculiar quirk about my wife. Whenever I’m forced to wait around while she clicks away in search of the perfect closeup of a tulip, I try to make productive use of my spare time by getting caught up on my latest Stephen King novel… or chopping down tree branches and erecting a lean-to, to take a nap. She’s going to be a while.
Our house is filled with dozens of her original paintings – on just about every wall of every room, I pretty much live in an art gallery. Before long we will run out of wall space for her art. Maybe then she’ll dial back on the need to take hundreds of photos of every waterfall she sees.
Who am I kidding? She’s not going to change. But I have discovered a way to give her a taste of her own medicine. In the evening, when we sit down to watch a movie together, I deliberately take an annoyingly long time to decide on a film. I’ll check out the trailers of ten different movies, until in exasperation she whines, “FOR GOD’S SAKE, JUST PICK ONE!”
It drives her crazy. Let’s just say we’re even.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
For too long, millions of people naively thought pickleball was a relaxing, fun, social game. Little did they know just how dangerous a sport it really is… until now.
Fellow pickleball players, it’s time somebody lulled all of you out of your collective coma and revealed the news that the mainstream media refuses to report: Pickleball is trying to kill you. Now hear me out. Yes, pickleball – that sport you shifted over to a couple years ago because you found tennis too strenuous.
Oh sure, the game looks innocent enough. Heck, even I was fooled and regularly played the sport three or four days a week before I discovered the terrifying truth. But I’ve done some research about the health risks of playing pickleball. Prepare to be shocked. If you think playing pickleball is not hazardous to your health, then you might as well take up smoking crack cocaine. At least with crack you’re probably not going to tear your Achilles Tendon.
Pickleball might be sweeping the nation as our fastest growing sport. But make no mistake, it’s not just a game. It’s a potential death trap waiting to suck you into its treacherous evil clutches. Let’s talk about the numbers, people. If the following statistics don’t terrify you and make you throw your paddle into a nearby volcano, then you’re living in denial – either that or you must not live near a volcano.
In 2023 alone, here in the United States of America, pickleball injuries clocked in at a staggering 66,750 emergency room visits. We’re talking about twisted ankles, broken wrists, sprained backs, and the occasional heart attack from the sheer shock of realizing that you finally won a game against Trevor, who is a 4.0 player, and you’ve never beaten Trevor.
But it doesn’t stop there. The pickleball plague reaches deep into our healthcare system, sending over 366,000 Americans to outpatient visits annually. That’s over a third of a million individuals who, after engaging in what was supposed to be a pleasant recreational activity, found themselves begging for immediate medical attention and needing anything from stitches to hip surgery to a heart transplant (admittedly, the likelihood of needing a heart transplant after a pickleball injury is probably remote).
I wonder if there’s a support group for the survivors of pickleball. If not, there should be. The meetings would probably have a 50% no-show rate because, well, half of those people would still be recovering in traction. Statistics show that men are significantly more likely to be hospitalized after a pickleball injury than women, with a ratio of ratio of 2.3 to 1. The medical explanation for this discrepancy is that men are wimps.
Still think pickleball is a safe sport and that you’ll somehow skate by unscathed? Good luck with that, buddy. Did you know that in 2023 alone there were 4,700 hospitalizations and just under 9,000 surgeries in the USA caused by pickleball? All those hospitalized victims had to endure the trauma of anxiously wondering whether they would make it through the surgery alive – or at the very least wondering if that gorgeous intern would be coming come back soon to check on them. Man, they’re cute! (That’s what that red button is for next to your hospital bed.)
As if all this wasn’t enough to make you rethink your life choices, let’s turn to the financial horror show that pickleball has unleashed upon the world. The cost of this bloodsport? $377 million in healthcare expenditures in the USA alone in 2023. Yes, you read that right – nearly $400 million spent on treating people who decided that hitting a plastic ball over a net was a good way to spend an afternoon. Let that dink in, I mean sink in.
I can think of a lot of better things I could have spent that $377 million on – like buy a desolate country (I hear Greenland is for sale, but that’s a topic for another time). Or perhaps you could stay at home, park yourself on the couch, and binge-watch all five seasons of Breaking Bad, like you’ve always been meaning to (because your spouse wouldn’t let you watch it when it first came out).
At this point, you may be thinking, “But Tim, I just wanted to get some light exercise. I’ve found it to be a good social activity. I’m just trying to have fun!” Well, fun is what they call it right before you’re sprawled on the court, clutching your ankle while the EMT’s prepare to load you into the back of the ambulance.
This is a typical way too many pickleball matches end – with someone ending up in the hospital, in need of medical attention. This man is distraught – mainly because the doctor told him to rest for four days before heading back out onto the court. “Four days, doc? That’s an eternity! I can’t wait that long!”
Oh sure, the social appeal of the game is undeniable. Nothing brings people together quite like a shared experience of trauma and profound worry over whether you’ll ever walk again. On the bright side, you just might meet some interesting new people in the waiting room of the ER. But honestly, was it really worth a trip to the ER when you hurled your body headlong into the concrete court just so you could make the game-winning shot? I think we both know the answer to that question: Yes. Yes, it was. But that’s beside the point.
I for one can no longer stand idly by and watch as pickleball claims more innocent victims. If you’re playing right now, it’s time to stop. Take up shuffleboard, join a knitting circle, or maybe get into competitive bird-watching – anything but pickleball.
After writing the previous paragraph, I did a little more research. If none of the above suggestions for an alternative to pickleball appeals to you, then you could always try skydiving. I just Googled it, and apparently there has not been a single reported incident of anyone dying while skydiving in years – unless you count the 486 people who died between 2000 and 2021 due to parachutes failing to open. But what are the odds that would ever happen to you?
Okay, so did a little more Googling. It turns out that, technically, there has never been a report of anyone actually dying from playing pickleball. But for God’s sake, why take any chances?
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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This is my wife taking a photo of an approaching elephant. I have to say, I was more than a bit disappointed when our guide said that I wasn’t permitted to exit the vehicle and ride the elephant. Naturally, I filed a complaint with the tour company demanding a full refund.
I have traveled all over the world, to Europe, China, and even to Canada. So, I think I know a thing or two about how to get around in foreign cultures – with the exception of Canada. Those Canucks are a total mystery to me.
Here’s a useful tip: When traveling to a foreign country, it is not necessary to be able to speak the local language. Say you’re in Paris. And the only phrase you know is “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?” – a phrase that is not very helpful unless you are trying to seduce your waitress at the cafe. No worries. Just speak in English using a really lame French accent. They will quickly become annoyed with you and start replying in English, “What are you trying to ask, Mister?” Trust me, everybody speaks English these days – except teenagers, who apparently only use emojis to communicate.
I recently returned from a three-week safari tour of southern Africa. You know, one of those “glamping” adventures, where you stay in “tents” that are nicer than my house. Based on my experience, let me share with you a few insights to help you evaluate whether glamping in Africa is your cup of tea.
First of all, to my surprise, I learned that Africa is not a country. It is a continent. And a very large one at that. We visited four countries: Zimbabwe, Zambia, Botswana, and South Africa. The plan was to hop into Toyota Land Cruisers and drive through the wilderness in search of all sorts of exotic critters and birds. Oh sure, we saw plenty of lions (but not a single tiger or bear, oh my). We also came upon elephants up close, as well as hippos, giraffes, Cape buffalos, crocodiles, and other amazing critters in the wild. But I had my heart set on spotting a giant panda. Alas, during the entire three weeks, the only panda I saw was on a sign at a Panda Express fast food joint at the airport.
The areas I saw were mostly grasslands and woodlands, not the deep jungle. So, we did not see a single gorilla. Again, deeply disappointing. But we did see several baboons and monkeys – at a picnic area where our land cruisers made a stop at for lunch one day. One vervet monkey leapt out of a tree, jumped on the picnic table, knocked over a bottle of wine, and made off with one person’s sandwich. (True.) Monkeys can be so rude – almost as rude as American tourists.
I’ll admit it was kind of cool to see lions out in the wild. One time, a pride of seven of them came up to our land cruisers and lay down right next to the vehicles for shade. I was literally two feet from an adult male (see photo below). But I was more than a little disappointed when the tour guide informed me that it was not safe for me to pat the lion behind the ears – or on the belly for that matter – even though I saw Joe Exotic on the Netflix docuseries Tiger King do that all the time.
One thing that I found rather lame is that, unlike at zoos back home, none of the savanna areas we went had those informational plaques with fun facts about the various critters we saw. All you saw was the animal. I couldn’t even Google “fun facts about leopards” because we had no internet in the middle of nowhere. They really need to look into that.
And yeah, it was pretty amazing when we came upon a leopard that had killed an adult impala and carried it 25 feet up a tree – with only its jaws – so it could enjoy its kill without vultures or lions trying to muscle in on its dinner. Something I had never seen in my life. But I was hoping it would have killed a rhino or a hippo. That would have been way cooler. So, yeah, kind of a letdown.
No, this is not a doctored photo. The lions really got this close to us. I was about to offer up a slice of raw steak to coax one of the lions to jump in the jeep so I could pat him. I mean look how calm and relaxed they all appear. But our guide said no to that too. Some people are such Debbie Downers.
The lodges where we stayed all had tents. And not the kind of tent you might think of for a camping trip back home. These tents came with flush toilets, showers with warm water, ceiling fans, and electricity. But no flat screen TV’s in your room. Come on, guys! This is the 21st century. And they would not let you walk from your tent to the lodge after dark. They had to escort you with an armed guide, in case a lion or hippo might attack. In fact a lion had killed an antelope right outside of our tent the night before we arrived. (True.) That would never have happened had we stayed at the Marriott.
Fun fact: Despite what I had learned from playing the Hungry Hippos game as a child, hippos don’t actually eat marbles. They mainly subsist on grasses, aquatic plants, and the occasional annoying tourist.
I was also unimpressed by the food. For some reason, every lodge we stayed at kept offering us African food with unpronounceable names like Nshima and Ifinkubala and Vitumbuwa. Not one lodge served pizza, let alone donuts. And don’t even get me started about the fact that apparently Mountain Dew seems to be outlawed in Africa.
So, if your idea of a fun vacation is to explore totally different cultures, try exotic foods, see amazing wild animals in their natural habitat, and immerse yourself in a totally alien world, all the while camping in luxury, then, I guess Africa is okay.
Personally, I’d rather go to Disney World and spend the afternoon on their Jungle Cruise ride. There you can navigate you through some of the world’s most treacherous waters, steam past lush foliage and waterfalls, and glimpse lions, hippos and zebras up close. And then finish up your adventure with a pepperoni pizza and an ice cold Mountain Dew at the Pizzafari restaurant. Pretty much the same experience, and far less chance of being eaten by a hippo.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Left: How we all fantasize about car ownership: out in the desert, warm breeze blowing on our face. Right: The reality of car ownership. Not so much a warm breeze as a hot steam spraying up from under the hood, in the desert, in the middle of nowhere. Did I mention that you’re out of cell phone range?
I love cars. But owning a car is a lot like being in a long-term relationship with a temperamental, unpredictable partner. In the beginning, it’s all love and smooth rides; you’re cruising down the highway with the windows down, music blasting like Jerry Maguire singing along to Tom Petty’s song Free Fallin.‘
But then, you hit a few bumps–figuratively and literally. If you’ve owned a car long enough, you’ll eventually learn that a few universal truths exist, no matter how much you try to Dodge them. Here are seven immutable laws of car ownership. If you’re a first-time car buyer, you better buckle up. You’re in for a bumpy ride.
The First Law of Breakdowns
No matter how carefully you maintain your car, the first time it breaks down will occur at the most inconvenient possible moment. You’ll be late for work, or worse, five minutes from the airport with a suitcase packed full of non-refundable destination vacation plans.
The breakdown will happen in the middle of a busy intersection or on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere – with any luck in utter darkness. The car will die at exactly the point when your AAA membership expires, and your phone, which in your haste you forgot to charge, will lose power just as you are attempting to text your neighbor, “Hey Carl my car broke down. Can you get me? I’m at – “
The Law of Mysterious Fluid Leaks
Every car has a secret, and that secret is a small, irritating fluid leak. It’s always the kind of leak that doesn’t show up on a regular service maintenance check, but when you’re least expecting it, turning your driveway into the setting for a small environmental disaster. You’ll detect an oil leak, or a coolant drip, or other mysterious “blue liquid” that’s not covered in the owner’s manual. Of course, this leak will only appear when your mechanic is out of town, and the entire auto parts store will be sold out of whatever overpriced magic potion is supposed to fix it.
Any idea what this purple fluid is that is dripping down from your engine block? No idea? Don’t worry. Your local mechanic will know, and trust me, it’s going to cost you an arm and a leg.
The Law of Unsolicited Advice
Everyone you know will have an opinion on how to fix your car, whether they have any qualifications or not. That guy at work who’s convinced that you can repair any car issue by watching YouTube will tell you to fix it yourself, even if you can’t tell the difference between a spark plug and an alternator.
Your devoutly religious elderly mother will offer to “pray for the car,” as if divine intervention will fix your busted radiator. And don’t get me started on your buddy Norm who says, “Just use duct tape, dude. It worked on my engine once!” No. No, it didn’t! You should never listen to anything Norm tells you. Why exactly are you even friends with him, anyway?
The Law of The ‘Check Engine’ Light
The primary reason this particular dashboard light was created is to generate intense anxiety, in order to send you rushing to the nearest repair shop and opening up your wallet. In reality, no one – especially you – has any idea what it actually means.
When it first comes on, you panic and frantically check the manual to decipher its cryptic message. From what you can surmise it means either that the battery is about to explode or possibly that the transmission is about to completely freeze up.
So, you take the car in for a diagnostic, and they’ll tell you it’s a minor sensor issue and that it’s probably safe to keep driving it… for now. Of course, you’ll still spend the next three months Googling “check engine light causes” and wondering if you’ll be stranded in the middle of the freeway at any moment with yet another warning light that flashes in bright red, “Your car is fucked.”
The Law of Unknown Sporadic Car Noises
There’s a sound your car will make. A random squeak. A clunk. An ominous rattling. The noise will occur at the worst possible time, and you’ll immediately think the car is on the brink of a mechanical breakdown. You’ll take it in, and the mechanic will give you that classic shrug: “Hmm. I couldn’t hear anything. It could be the camshaft. It might be the clutch assembly. Or maybe you need a complete engine rebuild. Unfortunately, your vehicle is out of warranty by 100 miles. If it keeps making that sound, bring it back in.”
You’ll drive around for weeks listening to that same unrelentingly unnerving sound, but the minute you bring the car back in, it will stop. It’s like your car is playing some sort of twisted head game with you. And it’s winning.
The Law of Repairs ALWAYS Costing More Than Expected
So, you notice one of your headlight lightbulbs is out. You take it to the local Firestone dealer to replace it. Good news: A replacement bulb only costs $25.00. Should be in and out in about twenty minutes. Forty minutes later a service tech informs you that your vehicle’s model year uses a special non-standard bulb that has to be custom ordered from a warehouse in Stuttgart, Germany. This special bulb costs $150. And they are only sold in pairs, so that’s $300.
It’s impossible to install these bulbs unless you’re a professional mechanic. If you want the dealer to install them, that will be another $200. It takes three weeks for the part to arrive from Germany. Then the earliest date they can squeeze you in for an appointment to install the new headlight bulbs will be two weeks after that. But only if you can leave the car with them all day. And no, they don’t have a shuttle service.
The good news? All your car needed to fix that rattling sound is a tiny widget the size of a spool of thread, which only costs you $5.00. The bad news? Installing it will be another $375.
The Law of Premature Car Replacement
At some point – usually about three years before you were planning to begin looking for a new car – you’ll find yourself facing the decision of whether to fix your car again or buy a new one. You’ll weigh the pros and cons, calculate how much it would cost to keep your 2011 Toyota Camry running, and ask yourself unsettling questions like, “How often do I even use the AC anyway?” and “How important is it that I can’t pull my car into reverse anymore?”
No matter how much you try to delay it, you’ll eventually face the unavoidable day of reckoning, reluctantly accepting that it’s probably finally time to call that annoying radio jingle phone number, 1-877-KARS-4-KIDS, and donate your lemon of a car to charity.
It turns out that the cost of a new car is surprisingly affordable lately, by which I mean roughly the same amount as the cost to send your youngest child to college next fall. And you can’t afford to do both. Tough decision, I hear you. Sure, she got accepted into Princeton. But you really need a new car. Good luck explaining to her how Riverside Community College is a lot like Princeton.
In the end, owning a car is a mix of love, frustration, and myriad unforeseeable expenses. But remember, the next time your car breaks down when you least expect it, don’t freak out when you receive that insanely high repair bill. From what I’ve been reading, community colleges are a much better investment than four-year universities anyway.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
