Tuesday, January 13, 2009

"And what does your beater need today?"

Took the ZoeMobile in this morning for an oil change and other sundry maintenance work, and the service writer said, "Oh, you're overdue for your 120,000 mile service." I know this, since the little "maintenance required" light lit up at 120,000 and has burned brightly ever since. Because my dad is a mechanic (and because my car is a Honda and will run virtually forever), I know that I can, for the most part, skip these required maintenance reminders. The biggies, yeah, I gotta do. I think I did one at around 75,000. Maybe it was 100,000. I change the oil regularly and don't do jackrabbit starts (unless M drives the car - grrrr) and the car is good and reliable and all that. So when the service writer started his usual spiel about the service I should get done, I sorta tuned him out and made a mental note to manually reset the light on my own. I know how to do that, having done it multiple times instead of shelling out hundreds of dollars for unnecessary maintenance work.

Then he said something that made me pay attention.

"Our maintenance reminder system doesn't go past 120,000 miles, so it'll roll over and you'll show up in the system with 'fresh' mileage. Like from zero. It just starts over."

So, what, now I'm experiencing age discrimination on my car? It's a freakin' Honda, for Pete's sake. Those service reminders ought to go up to like 350,000, at least. WTF? I'm proud of my mileage and think my car (or at least its record at the dealer) should wear it like a badge. "I got 126k on this hoss! Wahoo!"

I like my little car. No, scratch that. I love my little car. It's not goin' anywhere any time soon. I just don't like it when I get continual reminders that it's old. I don't consider it old. It's not like it looks like a beater or anything. Okay, so the Accord emblem on the trunk is having an adhesive failure issue and is now cocked at about a 15 degree angle. And there are too many door dings to count. And the front grill is slightly messed up from who know's what I hit (or, rather, what hit me - yes, let's go with that version). And there's prehistoric tar that will never, ever come off the door panels. And there's a tiny little puncture wound in the glove box leather from a cat carrier that rocked forward during a sudden stop on the way to the vet (no pets were harmed in the writing of this blog). But that's all just minor stuff. Right?



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