As you well know, I consider myself one of the more manly men around. Which is why it is with great shame that I make the following admission to you: I have no clue how to change the oil in my car.
I have fessed up in the past about my general inability to do anything mechanical, but changing oil is one of those inherent guy things that any guy worth his salt should be able to do. Sadly, I am as able to change my oil as I am to change out kidneys.
So every few months, when the little plastic sticker tells me, I take my cars into an oil change place and have them take care of it for me. I always make a real point to explain loudly to anyone who will listen that I am taking my car in because my time is very valuable, and I cannot be bothered with such trivialities as routine car maintenance. The conversation usually goes something like this:
ME: Yeah, I would scurry on under there and do it myself, but you know me -- busy, busy.
MAN AT OIL CHANGE PLACE: Again, 10W-40?
But every time I leave, I feel this sad realization that I am somehow less of a man because I don't do it myself. I will cruise home and see my neighbors up under their cars, big testosterone clouds hovering over their cars, and I think to myself: I am a little sheep of a boy.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: you climbed up under there and accidentally drank a couple quarts of Quaker State, didn't you? Well, I say to you this: you obviously don't know my wife. She would no more let me fix my car than she would let me fix a dog. If my general acceptance of my inadequacy isn't enough, then her crystal clear suggestions of "stay away from the car if you want to stay married" will generally do the trick.
But it still chafes me every time I hit the oil change place. And as some of you guys would never know, since you're all spending your Saturdays changing oil en masse, when you get your oil changed, they always try and add on all kinds of stuff that I am pretty sure I don't need. They constantly try to sell me an air filter. I sidestep that by telling him that I don't use my air conditioner very much, so he can take his fancy gadgets elsewhere.
The latest hard sell I got was for "clutch fluid." The guy told me that my clutch fluid was low. I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure that he was holding back a laugh. My car has more than 100,000 miles on it, and not once has anyone mentioned clutch fluid. I know that my car has a clutch. But I know that it doesn't have any fluid on it. Otherwise, my shoe would get wet.
I decided to play along with his little game. I asked him how much this "clutch fluid" would cost. He gave me some exorbitant amount. Eight dollars, I think. I asked him if I could get it at the auto parts store. He told me I could. Apparently they're in this together.
I went to the auto parts store and began browsing. And, as usual, it was like I was the only one there who didn't speak the language. I could have been in a Turkish bazaar. I made my way back to a wall that housed, so far as I could tell, liquids. I recognized two things: washer fluid and oil. Everything else apparently cleaned the insides of your car or turned it into a sports car. Some used the word "torque," which I am pretty sure is made up.
Eventually, a clerk came over and saw that I was clueless. He sympathetically asked if he could help. "Yeah, some guy told me I needed clutch fluid," and chuckled, as if to say "Have you ever heard such idiocy?"
Well, the dude threw me for a loop by saying, "You need brake fluid."
I responded, "No, clutch fluid."
"That's brake fluid."
Poor hearing, I thought. "CLUTCH FLUID," I said, stretching it into about 11 syllables.
"You use brake fluid for that. Trust me."
He handed me a bottle of stuff that cost about $2. At least it beat the other guy's estimate. When I was checking out, I sheepishly asked him where I, technically, put the fluid. Despite such an easy set up, he told me that there would be a reservoir that said "clutch fluid" under my hood. He was pretty sure I could make it from there.
When I got home, I popped my hood and, sure enough, there was something that was labeled "clutch fluid." I was a little hesitant about pouring something that was definitely not labeled "clutch fluid" in there, but I figured I had nothing to lose, with the possible exception of my car, some limbs, perhaps the ability to utilize all of my senses, etc.
Apparently, the stuff worked. Or, rather, it didn't cause a fiery explosion, which to me is very much a victory. I have just resigned myself to never knowing anything about cars, and I just have to accept the fact that I will forever have to pay someone to do it for me. At least I'll never have to change my air filter.