My name might not be Aesop, and this tale doesn’t involve a crow or a fox, but it’s a fable nonetheless.
Being a long-legged individual, my car seat must always be slid back as far as it will go. As a consequence, the sun occasionally comes in through the side window and hits me square in the eyes. Unfortunately, the standard visor provided by the manufacturer rarely allows for enough relief. My sunglasses are already on, but sun shining from the side doesn’t care. I’m forced to makeshift some sort of shade tent by draping an old road map over the visor itself, while driving. Or I can scoot my seat forward until I’m in the clear; which also allows me to lick my knees.
That’s correct: I resent short people because of window glare.
Step Two: came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
This is a true, honest-to-goodness resentment, by the way: one reinforced whenever I found myself squinting tears of anger through busy traffic. If someone was traveling with me and asked why I was gently weeping, they got some version of the following:
“Because it’s easier and cheaper for carmakers to just assume everyone’s between 5’5” and 6’2”. How hard would it be to just extend the visor? You know, just a little flip-out piece of plastic or something to cover right here,” I’d point out the naked glass. “How much could that possibly cost them? Ridiculous. It’s like no one’s ever written a letter or complained in a customer satisfaction poll before. This,” I’d point out the naked glass again, “should’ve been solved fifty years ago!”
So, over time, I ended up bitching to everyone I knew about my aversion to the sun, the dangers of visually impaired driving, and the lazy incompetence of Detroit and Japan. It was a real thing with me.
Until last Sunday, when my eyes were opened. While rooting around in a local thrift shop, I find the answer to my problem. My tiny, twenty-eight year annoyance would soon be a thing of the past. I happened upon one of those flat cd holders that strap onto the visor of your vehicle, allowing easy access to your favorite bands through disk technology. I immediately saw it for what it truly was: a ninety-nice cent Godsend.
It had two straps, perfect, and as I sat in the parking lot struggling to slip said straps over my car’s visor, the real lesson of the day presented itself in the form of Step Two. During the process of shaking and tugging, the rod which connected the visor to the car itself slipped forward and clicked, exposing an additional five inches of metal arm, allowing for complete coverage.
And just like that, almost three decades of completely believing that it was them and not me went up in smoke. Sure, a silly example, but one that left me with the question, what else am I so right about being broken that I quit trying to fix it?
Today: I’m grateful not to know everything about everything.