I’m not even sure the last time I let someone borrow my car for any length of time. Frankly, I’m not even sure why I have a car at all at this point. I do enjoy hammering out a not-as-good-for-me-as-they’d-like-me-to-believe deal with the dealership folks, but that aside…
You get in your car after your mom or dad or brother or deadbeat cousin borrowed it for the day, weekend, to go to your other deadbeat cousin’s house and play World of Warcraft for hours when you had said you had plans earlier in the day (those are all hypotheticals).
The mirrors, naturally, are out of whack. Depending on the season, the air conditioning or heat is blasting, the seat position is all fucked up and there’s definitely a new radio station among your presets. In other words, it’s a veritable disaster.
Then you look at that gas gauge. And you realize that there are still shreds of humanity left in this godless, soulless world.
You wouldn’t have been out of gas, not by a long shot. In fact, you still had at least half a tank. But, that deadbeat fucking cousin of yours finally did something worthwhile with their fucking lives and filled you up. Not because they had to, but because it was the right thing to do.
Also In The Running: Instead of polar opposite here, I’m going to simply point out that this feeling is basically the same thing as when you were younger (or, if you’re lucky, still as an older person) and your parents would unexpectedly take you grocery shopping. Basically, any time someone pays for a menial, non-meal-related task that you didn’t ask for, don’t need and can certainly handle on your own.