At the car wash: A lesson in facing your fears

I have what you’ll likely consider an irrational fear: I’m afraid of drive-thru car washes. Well, really I’m just afraid of the getting-into-the-drive-thru-car-wash part. There’s this magic track that, if you manage to align your vehicle correctly, will effortlessly pull you through the squirty soap and slappy swishy cleaning implements, and you’ll come out on the other side all shiny and new.

But I’m directionally and depth-perceptionally challenged, so getting onto that track is a pulse-racing feat. Because, you see, I’m almost positive that if you don’t manage to align your vehicle correctly, that track will take hold of a wheel or an axle or some similarly important part, and pull the bottom of the car out from under the top part of the car and leave you there, sitting in a seat that is now part of a bottomless automobile that will from that point forward  only move if you learn how to drive like Fred Flintstone.

Those nice guys at the opening of the magical cleaning machine must know this fate awaits, and that’s why they’re so patient about getting you all lined up. A little to the left. A little more. Now back to the right just a smidge. Not THAT much. Then, clunk. You’re in. And you can breathe and release your white-knuckled hands from the steering wheel then sit back and enjoy the rainbow swooshes of soapy stuff as they wash away your troubles and the three accumulated inches of winter road grime.

Aaah. That’s better. Until those huge dryers blow what has to be the equivalent of 117 jet engines directly at you and the idea that they could possibly blow right through your windows enters your mind …