I have my car and my husband has his car. These are boundaries that our good marriage doesn't cross. But every once in a while there's a reason I have to use his car. Maybe my car is in the shop or he needs my car's large trunk. Whatever it is, I try my damnedest not to drive that day. I'd rather walk. I adore him. I hate his car. Because his car is a portal to hell.
The radio explodes on ignition.
My husband does not have a hearing problem but he plays his car radio like he does. Turn the key and you will be assaulted by the extreme volume of baseball talk radio. These sports radio hosts overanalyze the crazy play from the night before. Why are they yelling? I turn the dial down as quickly as I can. My ears are bleeding. My kids are in this car some mornings. How can anyone stand it?
The car doubles as a garbage can.
I open the car and see him wrappers, seltzer bottles, and empty coffee cups everywhere. Yuck! Hey man, take your trash with you when you leave. I always spend a few minutes cleaning arms-length all around me in the driver's side. I take pity and do a big clean every month or so. I don't mind it because I can see what he sneaks when I'm not around.
Wires are everywhere.
When I first get into his car, my other task is to roll up the garden-hose length cellphone charger wires he has strewn about the front seats. They are long, they are tangled, and they are still plugged into the cigarette lighter (are they still called that?). Heaven forbid his cell phone should reduce in power by 2% during his 5 minute ride to the train station. He needs all the juice he can get to check his favorite Mets blog all day.
His seat is basically in the trunk.
I sit in the driver's seat and my tippy toes can't reach the peddles. I have never felt more like a child. I move the seat up just to be able to actually function in this car, let alone be comfortable. I have to remember to slide it all the way back when I get home or else I'll hear him make jokes at how I must like to steer with my knees. It never gets old for him. This man doesn't look as tall as his driver's seat position would have you believe.
The car smells like old coffee and farts.
Yes, hmmmm. There is a distinct odor that's hard to place. The best I can do to describe it is that it's mostly stale coffee with a hint of old farts. Did I mention he takes our three boys to school/daycare some mornings? The kids must literally let loose in this brief man time together. They would never in Mommy's car. It's a free-for-all in Daddy's car.
I love my husband but I don't love his car. That's his place, just like my car is mine. I let him keep it how he wants. If he didn't like it, I'm sure he would change it.