My sister and I used to share a car, and I was always amazed at the panache with which she would do car maintenance and repairs, like top off the oil and windshield-wiper fluid.
"Oh my God, you’re like a mechanic," I’d say, watching from our stoop as she strode purposefully from trunk to engine with mysterious bottles.
"It’s not hard," she’d inform me.
Maybe not. But despite the fact that I can negotiate a car purchase with terrifying efficiency, cook amazing meals that'd make Emeril Lagasse say "BAM!", and share the stage with male improvisers without fear, I was convinced that if I'd attempt such tasks, I’d somehow end up with oil spurting across my windshield on the New Jersey Turnpike.
But when I got a fix-it ticket last week and looked at our dwindling bank account, I knew I had to try a few simple car fixes, including fixing my broken tail light. And you know what? It wasn't hard. My sister’s right.
I hate when that happens.
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