Forecast: Cloudy with a chance of self-loathing
| Thursday, Nov 24 2011 08:58 PM
Last Updated Thursday, Nov 24 2011 09:00 PM
Sunday started with a drive in the truck. Since it was rainy, I turned on the windshield wipers.
That didn't help, and I knew it wouldn't because the rubber on the wipers was trashed and was ready to be made into huaraches. Unless the wipers had spontaneously fixed themselves, the rain was like tears that couldn't be wiped away on a willing shoulder.
Maybe, if I turned them up higher, it would clear the glass. I went from not being able to see to really not being able to see.
Given that the rain was coming down hard, my only choice was to open both of the windows and navigate by looking out the sides of each one.
Now the windshield was wet and my head was soaked, too. Although I made it to my destination, it was time to buy new windshield wipers, something I should have done weeks earlier when I realized these wipers were no longer serviceable.
Why hadn't I done it thus far? I hadn't because I was afraid of windshield wipers and have never had much success in replacing them. When you fear something, you avoid it and when you avoid it, you end up looking out the open windows of your truck on a rainy Sunday morning and coming this close to mowing down anybody unfortunate enough to be in the bike lane, on the sidewalk or in their front yard collecting the Sunday paper.
Fear of windshield wipers was a childish thing, I know. It's easy to go to John Axt or your favorite garage and have an able technician replace the wipers himself. I have done that.
The problem is windshield wiper shame: I am 57 years, and before that I was 56, 48, and 25. That's a long time to fear the windshield.
A reasonable person faced with a similar dilemma might take the opportunity to conquer that fear by becoming proficient in the job.
That's one way of doing it, but it's been easier to let other people do it, excusing a lack of proficiency by blaming the myriad sizes and types of windshield wipers.
Later that day, I drove to O'Reilly Auto Parts store on Ming. I walked to the counter, where I came face to face with a man whose name might have been Ray.
"Yes, you need an 18," he said, after I told him I had a 1991 Chevy truck. "You have the choice between this generic brand and the Bosch, which is more expensive. I think you can get two years out of the Bosch. The rubber seems to be better."
As it happened, I was not driving the truck because, if I had been, I would have been tempted to ask him if he had a second and if he could show me how to install the blades.
"These are easy," he said. "Just remove the old ones. Then snap the new ones on the hook."
He looked at me and sensed the depth of my despair.
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that my college degree was good for something, but if you're afraid of replacing your windshield wipers, what does a college degree mean? You might as well have dropped out in fourth grade.
I shook his hand for a long time, hoping that his strength and competence would flow into me. Then I drove home.
It rained for the next three hours but when it stopped, I walked to the truck, took off the old wipers, almost breaking the arm on one side ( another fear ) -- and then snapped on the new ones.
Maybe it was Ray. Maybe it was Bosch. Maybe it was time.
