Although it was frigid weather today, and I mean C-O-L-D, I still elected to take the grey box through the autowash this week. It was so grungy that a person could hardly go near the car without getting smuch on them.
My daughter was with me and we are both suffering from a weekend basketball tournament hangover. Our hair was limp, and had we not committed to ringing the Salvation Army bell, we would have still been on the couch.
I felt a little bad for the fellow doing the pre-spray to the grey box. His many layers of coats and hoodies could not protect him from the spray-back from the hose. I felt it sucking FOR him. I imagined he was underpayed. I felt annoyed at me FOR him. Moving on.
My sweet baboo reminded me that she used to have to hold her brother's hand when we went through the spray wash, since the sound frightened him. I had COMPLETELY forgotten about that. I. had. forgotten. How will I ever remember all of the important things? I need to write things down. Moving on.
As the wash revved up, I held my hand out to her. She smiled at me and held my hand. It was sweet, and made up for the times lately (more often than ever) that she thinks I am annoying. We agreed the spinning brushes looked like dancing ladies, and we cranked up the radio so we could hear the GLEE CD better. We belted out our favorite cover of "Don't Stop Believing". I told her about Journey and Steve Perry.
Then, we sat silently as the scrubbers surrounded us and the next ones wagged side to side over the car. At one point, she said "cool" very quietly. It was pretty cool, and I wished we could just shut the car down and stay in the car wash. Forever. Or, at least for a nap.
The spell was broken as we exited the car wash, and we hustled to our usual busy lives. But, for those few minutes....