The last time I went to get my car checked was before my Michigan/Ohio road trip. My mom suggested maybe my ’93 Chevy Lumina could use a good look-over before the drive and I grudgingly agreed.

My initial hesitation was because of my hatred, intense yet futile, of all automobile-related interactions.

I remember as a little girl, hearing my mom tell friends about her recent trip to a mechanic. After he claimed she needed a new water pump she marched him over to her car, popped the hood and demanded he show her the problem.

The mechanic?

He couldn’t locate the water pump.

Listening to that story, even as a little girl, I was struck with the knowledge that one day, I was going to be suckered by a mechanic.

Unlike my mom I didn’t grow up in Michigan, with a father who worked as a Tool & Dye man for Ford Motors.

I’ve never belonged to a Porsche club.

Far from changing my own oil, I can’t even change a tire.

So I suffer through every car repair interaction, confident that the man I’m speaking with is making the sexist assumption that I’m ignorant of car mechanics.

While I stew in the knowledge that he’s right.

My forceful demand to see the water pump would end in a humorous anecdote to be later shared with other mechanics, after he decisively pointed at the engine and I nodded thoughtfully, deciding to have the pump replaced.

So though my steering wheel’s smoking is increasing, I still avoid the mechanic.

For I may be a fool, but at least I have my pride.

Is being prideful of pride a squared sin?