There are a lot of things I don’t do well. I can’t cook worth a damn. Not any better at housework. The list is pretty long, actually. But if there was one thing I thought I could handle, it’s sitting in the passenger seat of my car.
While my car was away from home, being tweaked enough to get an inspection sticker, the seats were adjusted. I tried putting mine back a little but, no matter which way I pushed the switch, it would only move forward. My husband was convinced I’m not smarter than the switch and kept telling me I was doing it wrong. Tried it both ways. Seat only moved forward.
So he told me if I put it all the way forward, then it might go back. The seat goes way forward. So then my knees ended up jammed under the glovebox and I couldn’t move and the seat was all the way forward. My husband was laughing so hard he almost hit the curb and I was yelling at him because if he hit anything or set the airbags off, I was toast.
We finally arrived at the restaurant—me with my knees under the dash and my face pressed to the windshield—and I thought my husband was going to piss himself he was laughing so hard while I tried to get out. Finally, standing outside the car, I tried the switch again and the seat moved back to where it was supposed to be.
Really, you’d think I’d at least be able to ride shotgun in my own car. Stupid power switches.