I don't clean my car. There, I said it. While I'm borderline anal-retentive about cleaning toilets, kitchen cabinets, my purse, or the junk drawer, I ignore my car to the point of abuse.
It's not that I never clean it. I periodically run it through the $5 (no wax, no air dry) service at the local BP gas station when I fill up. But vacuuming the insides or polishing the dash? Not gonna happen.
This causes best friend Trisha--a clean car fiend--untold levels of anxiety. Whenever I visit her she literally forces me to a "grown-up" (her words) car wash where I'm forced to pay the price of a nice dinner out WITH WINE for some teenage kid to buff my tire rims.
Frankly, I don't see the point. Five minutes out on the road and it's going to be dusty all over again. Admittedly, I enjoy the shiny dash and lemony smell that comes with a grown-up car wash, but I just hold some mental block about paying someone to wash my car--even knowing that I'm not going to do it myself.
But I took a good look at my car today and decided it was time. The outside was bug-spattered from the recent trip to Hilton Head and there were food crumbs (NO idea how THAT happened) in the cracks of the seats. So I went to Street Cars, shut my eyes, pointed to a service and handed over the keys.
I paid the receipt and immediately texted Trisha. Our exchange looked like this:
ME: I just paid $50 to have my car cleaned. This is BULLS**T.
TRISHA: Haa!!! Twice a year whether it needs it or not, huh?
ME: What am I supposed to tip?
ME: MORE BULLS**T!!
TRISHA: For a clean car??? Dirt cheap.
ME: Excuse me, is my last name "Trump?"
TRISHA: There is always the option of a bucket and some soap, sweet pea princess!
Point scored. I'll stop complaining. And--darn it--there is a feeling of luxury that comes with pulling away in a spotless, shiny car. Short lived, perhaps, but aren't most pleasures in life?
I may just start indulging the clean car bug. I'd better make my 6-month follow-up visit NOW, before they fill up.