So, do cars have estrogen?
I know we call them, “She,” like we do with ships. I just wonder—how far does the metaphor go? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure that our van—her name is CocoPuff—is having some sort of hormonal issues.
Perhaps I’m just hypersensitive to this because I am currently surrounded by a number of—how do I say this and not get disemboweled—emotionally shaky ladies. My mother and my sister are in the process of moving from a house they have shared for several years to an apartment they will share until one kills the other. The bookmakers favor my sister, simply because she is younger. I don’t know, though—my money may be on Mom. She’s tough, and she’s wily. They’re not crazy…mostly. They’re just a grown woman and her grown daughter trying to navigate the tough years of life when the parent-child relationship becomes nebulous.
That’s one side of the family. A little closer to home I have my mother-in-law, who is dealing with cancer. I’ve talked about this before, and I don’t want to violate her privacy, and endanger my life, by saying too much. Suffice to say that it is a difficult season, we are spending a lot of time together at the hospital, and reason and rationality are not always at the forefront of our conversations.
So I retire from the craziness to the sweet refuge of home. There I find my teenage daughter, who is adjusting to the pressures of high school, and the Wife of My Youth, who is adjusting to the pressures of homeschooling our now high-school-aged kids, all the while bearing the additional burden of her mom’s cancer fight. My safe harbor is awash in estrogen tsunamis.
At least I have Mandy, an emotionally needy Golden Retriever who gives you reproachful looks if you are not—literally—holding her paw and telling her she is beautiful.
Forget the dog.
But I can escape, right? I can hop in my cool ride, blast some man-tunes, and just…drive.
Except my cool ride is a minivan named CocoPuff, and even she’s getting hormonal on me.
“Oh, Michael,” you say, “Now you’re over the top. Cars are mechanical contraptions. They can’t get hormonal.”
Then explain to me, oh pretty please, why my car is having hot flashes.
You heard me.
Hot flashes.
Yesterday, the car’s engine fan refused to stop running. Pulled into the driveway, turned off the ignition—and the fan continued to run. Asked the mechanic, who said, “She must be overheating.”
Except she’s not.
She only thinks she is.
Sound familiar to anyone?
The car sat in the driveway for 45 minutes, fanning herself, refusing to believe that her engine compartment wasn’t 2700 degrees Fahrenheit. She cooled her engine so much that weather patterns began to change. Neighbor kids showed up with sleds and hot cocoa. I finally donned parka and gloves, approached, and managed to disconnect the battery cable before frostbite set in.
Turns out her sensors are, to use the technical term, “Outta whack.” I know the real cause. CocoPuff has well over 100,000 miles on her. I think she’s hitting mechanopause.
As a man, I sometimes (read often) have difficulty navigating the turbulent waters of the feminine mind. I am reminded of lines from the old hymn
In every high and stormy gale,
My anchor holds within the vale.
On Christ, the solid rock, I stand.
All other ground is sinking sand.
All other ground is sinking sand.
Chances are, the writer wasn’t thinking about families, dogs, and mechanopausal cars when he penned these lyrics, but they fit for me.
I am so thankful that God does not operate on hormones—estrogen, testosterone, or otherwise. I’m grateful that he is my solid rock, the same yesterday, today, and forever.
While I’m at it, I’m also thankful for my son, my strong, testosterone-laden, stoic boy—another rock I can cling to in the storm. I think I’ll go find him now. We’ll make noises and sweat.
First, though, it looks like the dog needs some attention.