Marriage & the Automobile

Yet another Sunday and yet another profanely satisfying squeak of a finger on the hood of an enormously clean and shiny black car at three in the afternoon- the now natural and customary ordeal that almost all women go through every weekend. The most amazing thing about marriage and pre-marital relationships is the worth that is bestowed upon individuals as an end result of such societal demeanor. As near perfect as anyone would want to be, and as suave and urbane as anyone would want to reflect upon the ever demanding countenance of society, so does maintaining and cosseting oneself in the warmth of a solid relationship somehow help achieve an almost equal amount of near perfection. But sadly, come Sunday morning and almost every wife and girlfriend silently and tolerantly grit and gnash their teeth at the sudden and now routine invasion of home improvement by the faithful and razor cold automobile.

There is something about us men and our cars that somehow make it almost impossible for any woman to laud or find space in her infamous warm heart to accommodate a tin can apart from the priorities in her everyday routines. Where to a man, the weekly dose of shampoo and wax polish for the purring tin can is nothing short of an act of general prevention, to a woman the entire set up is a composition of things egoistical, indifferent, insensitive, rude, biased and many other words usually heard when fathers get really cross and unimaginably furious with their teenage sons.
Henry Ford had a vision when the first Model T rolled out of its assembly line. Ford had a vision, and then, the entire world never ever thought that such a vision would soon surpass need and the hierarchy triangle. Old Mr. Henry clearly never had it in mind that his invention, apart from cutting travel-time in half, would evolve into the seemingly bucket of bolts that sometimes fools you into believing that it has life: which makes you wonder where do you draw the line between men, and men. Where men then were bearded, pipe smoking men in tights and overcoats and huge buckled leather shoes being driven into all social gatherings; men today are the ones with their arms spread wide on the car windshields, heads tilted to either side and resting on the glass, with closed eyes and very deep and satisfying smiles on their sleeping faces. It is really a matter thought provoking when you have, apart from thorough vital statistics about your machine- the horses it unleashes, the power to weight ratios, the torque and all, feelings of love and affection and emotional hangovers every time you lovingly sponge bathe your car. And really, it is a matter thought provoking when everyone knows for a fact that well over 90 percent of the male population contributing to carbon emissions on earth are the sponge bathers and love struck whip wielders.

Ford must really be amused somewhere in the infinite entity of space and heaven every time he looks down to earth as cars are being delivered. I am quite certain that he never ever thought that much pleasure could be derived from washing and waxing just as half the pleasure is derived from letting all the horses under the hood gallop towards the unending horizon. I am sure most men, no, ALL men would agree when I say that the ritual of bathing these poignant and near live beauties is really almost sacred and rule bound. We could take serious time and pains explaining to our wives and girlfriends, how each and every step of the sacred ritual of car washing is purposeful and goal oriented. And even if the said wives and girlfriends sigh and nod a cold and indifferent nod, we rarely ever pay attention to such whims. Instead, we do our final touches and touch ups while all the while stepping back and tilting our heads from side to side until our heads could very well fall off our shoulders, as we subtly smile and admire the car from all angles possible while at the same time praying ardently to God above to not send rain after the car has been waxed so much as to almost be able to take the place of a mirror for a week and a half.

The joy of seeing one’s face clearly and without scattered reflection upon our automobiles’ surface is a joy that God, and most probably after consultation with Henry Ford, has gifted to all upon the earth, excepting women. Automobiles may as well be the only thing, apart from babies, that men really love that can be bought with money and that do not come out from between a woman’s legs. The love affair between man and machine is a condition that the entire human race has gradually accepted and begun to live with, with clearly understood indifference and concern.
There’s a friend I have who has an idea which sometimes seems quite okay, even though all of us know that it is thoroughly stained with inept and incompetent furrows- signs of how long he has stood by this marvelous idea. According to my close, wire-haired friend; every time we go out for drinks and ever so often that we lean on the bar counter, our butts perched high up on the bar stools; he manages to contort any story that we’d like to share, into a declaration. For him, everyone- be it women or anybody else on earth are completely untrustworthy. And weird as it may sound, the only reason he adores his car so much is simply because unlike any other woman or man or combination of both, the car is the only ever faithful and obedient partner.

There is nothing, according to him, that a car would not do to please you within its defined limits. To him, what you pay for is exactly what you will get. You go ahead and buy a 2.0 liter V6 you get an exact 250 to 300 thoroughbred horses at your helm. You purchase a 4 cylinder 1.2 liter engine; you get nothing but exactly 80 to 90 thoroughbreds. And those horses will stay there for as long as you would have them. They don’t change, they don’t take breaks, they don’t question why, they belong to you and you have the first word over anything. But a woman- a woman is totally different. The first few months into the relationship and they are as sweet as honey and they are there behind you, ready to help you through every rough meander as you go on together. Soon after the marriage and 2 years into legal commitment, you suddenly become the cause and your wife- the effect. To him, the seemingly limitless and infinite bounds of the opposite sex are far more rigid than the steel sheets used to build the automobile.
I can understand and also sympathize with him and his rudely astounding point of view. Where a person always trained to perform the same duties within his or her limits gradually gets bored, or starts to lose interest, or even starts to throw tantrums and also at the same time starts to change jobs; a vehicle or a machine, on the other hand, just runs out of fuel and needs oil- conditions which are totally reversible. Where a wife (sticking to the theme of this presentation) would allow you two or three independent turns at the wheel, the faithful automobile is upgraded every year to tackle chicanes and turns more efficiently. Where a wife would question you and your spontaneous take on the wheel and ask you millions of joyous questions of why or what could have been had you taken another turn instead, the automobile doesn’t need to know why- it simply obeys.

I cannot recall, at any point of time, a situation where any of my friends would want to drive anywhere outside their gates after the ritual courtship with their respective vehicles. Which brings me to wonder why such thoughts are something no wife or girlfriend can ever fathom, let alone deem normal. Babies and children take a half hour to bathe and sterilize. Cars take half a Sunday. Chauvinist as it may sound; it is only fair that relations take a back seat at least only once a week. We drive our women almost everywhere six days a week; it is evidently okay that we drive them up a wall on Sundays.