You can’t kill a Honda, unless you’re an 18-Wheeler.

Mornings make me nervous.

I wish that they didn’t. But they do.

I wake up with such issue with the Day, every single day. It doesn’t matter if I’ve had three hours of sleep or a hundred.

And I don’t settle down until after 2:00, usually…on bad days 4:00.

I think it’s because I’ve lost my mornings. That’s what it feels like.

I mean, I wake up knowing I have a drive ahead of me just to get to my office, a drive I’m beginning to hate with the heated passion of a thousand burning suns, and it’s caused me to reevaluate what I do when I’m in my car: I’m not driving anymore; I’m working.

And I used to look at driving as a fun thing to do. I promise, I did. I’ve logged many miles on America’s highways.

But, now, the minute my butt hits the seat of the car, I feel like I’m in a mobile office.

I feel that I’m at work as soon as I crank the engine, which might explain why some mornings I hope it won’t.  I have little other choice: I must consider my time on the road to be the same as my work time…like a traveling, irritation-filled office hour (plus five minutes, give or take).

It’s an analogy that I’m about to beat to death in this blog.

Because this morning: my cruise control went out.

Prophetic, eh?

I named my car after my great grandmother, Tigi. And she’s been a very good car for ten, mostly easy years. She’s never given me a great deal of trouble, and aside from regular oil changes, the inopportune Timing Belt Incident of 2004, and the Stranger-Danger Tire Trauma outside Louisville, Kentucky, in 2005, she’s been clean as a whistle.

After all, she’s a Honda. And you can’t kill a Honda unless you’re an 18-wheeler. And although I have managed to avoid taking the Honda quiz on Facebook, I will not hesitate to admit that they’re good cars.

Except when they’re bad.

I’ve never been in a car that decided it no longer appreciated the ease of cruise control. I thought she was about to pull a Flintstone.  It shook and shook and coughed and sputtered, and I had no idea what was going on, but after I’d calmed down, it hit me: this was a sign.

I can’t keep doing this job.

I hate the idea of being stranded anywhere, but especially between Crawford and Scooba, Mississippi(s).  And even worse so in the middle of a steady, mocking rain.

Fortunately, Tigi held firm, and I managed to get to my office, but now I’m sitting here dreading the drive back, in case I’m not so lucky.

As I pulled into my trusty old parking spot, I began to correlate my waning desire to work here with the problems my car has been experiencing, over the past few months.

Day One: I drive to Scooba, find my building, park, take my little sack lunch and my satchel with me into my office, and prepare for class. The day goes well, but I’m not really sure I’m a good fit for the environment here, particularly. I try to push that thought away. The gossiping others make this hard to do; I feel a little down. A little stained. But, it’s only the first day, right?

A week or so later, I have my oil changed. Everything OK?, I ask him.

Well, mostly.

Mostly?

Gotta small oil leak, but it’s nothin’ to worry with, for now.

OK, well, thanks, then…

…for now.

Day Forty-Three: (please NOTE – these days are approximate) Tigi cranks and well enough, but she pulls at the stop signs. She manages to get from Point A to Point B, but that tug is aggravating. It’s as if she’s getting a little tired of the drive, too. I worry constantly that she’s about to go dead at the next four-way, or the next traffic light, but she obliges, if grudgingly, all the way to Scooba. The day goes well in class, but I still feel so out-of-place, and I’m not encouraged by the rumor-mongers. I know I’ve got more charm than this, but I don’t feel the need to use it.

That’s never a good sign, FYI.

So, I take her back to the mechanics. I’m putting so many miles on her every two weeks, I’m afraid to wait too long for trained eyes to inspect her.

How’s it looking?, I ask.

Your transmission’s leaking, a little, but it’ll be next week before I can do anything good about it. Should be fine, though. Not to worry…it’s small

…should be fine.

This morning: no cruise control. Tigi might as well have told me herself that she’s nearing done with this day-to-day, slow-to-burn, gradual mercy killing. The road has become a mountain, and she’s no Sherpa. She might as well have thrown up the engine and spit out a spark plug because my foot is just not the type to drive without cruise control. I rely on that cruise control. But what it says to me in figurative terms is far more lethal than what I expect will happen on my way home this afternoon…if I get home.

I’ve been relying on cruise control for far too long in this job, and now comes a decision that will separate the faculty from the football coaches: am I going to be a Man or a Missionary?

Because it’s either stop and pray or push the car, at this point.

Who knew that so innocuous a job offer this past summer could become such an unnecessary headache, and in so short a time. It’d be one thing if a) they came through on some of their promises, or at least moved with something even slightly akin to speed, or b) if all this were happening just 10-15 minutes down the road from my house.

But they don’t, or haven’t, done these two things. So, they’re just negatives. And these two negatives do not make a positive, in my case. Especially not when they’re over two hours away, round trip.

It’s never good when you question the worth of a thing. But it’s worse when you do and have trouble finding an answer.

Take it one question at a time, someone told me.

That’s what I’m trying to do.

It’s just unfortunate that the question now is Why.

Related Posts:

• That'd be on account of my "driver's lung."
• How on earth do you wash a Fedora? [and other random thoughts]…
• I try not to abuse the privilege of a horn.
• The table of Christian Things.
• I’d like to introduce you to the word “hingent.”