Unsensored

“Are we there yet?” asked my husband as I turned the car onto the beach highway.

“Almost,” I promised.

“Why is it that the last hour is always the longest part of the trip?”

His question had a tone reminiscent of our days with children in the back seat, so I didn’t answer. Instead, I looked over at my husband slumped against passenger seat door and pondered his point. Vacation travel, even on the most pleasant of trips, has a strange way of elongating time. I mulled over the phenomenon of prolonged destination arrival until I merely sighed and maneuvered into a line of slow seaside traffic.

By the time we arrived at the condominium for our annual family gathering, we were tired and more than ready to relax. Fortunately, our temporary home promised to be everything we needed for a lazy week on the Gulf coast. As I inspected the kitchen, the only things missing were a few groceries.

“I’ll run to Publix and get that errand out of the way,” I told my husband.

Busy with unpacking the beach paraphernalia, he grunted an affirmative, “Good idea,” in my direction.

At the store, I gathered enough provisions to prevent family starvation and loaded the essentials into the car. Only when I turned the key in the ignition and started to drive back to the condo did I notice the problem. Two strange symbols on the dashboard of the car were glowing orange.

“Well, we have a bit of a problem,” I announced to my husband after a quick study the owner’s manual outside our rental unit. “The emission light and the ABS brake lights are on, but the car is running fine.”

“Are you kidding me?” my husband fumed, “I just had the car serviced two weeks ago!”

Trying to remain calm, I nodded at his outburst, knowing he had every right to be upset. Nobody goes into “Dad mode” about servicing a vehicle quite like my husband. He is the undisputed king of preventive maintenance.

“Calm down,” I soothed. “It’s probably just a bad sensor. Why don’t you call your service guy at the dealership in Memphis tomorrow? He can probably tell you what we need to do.”

Uttering a few choice words under his breath, my husband grabbed the keys and proceeded to perform his own diagnostic assessment on the car. After twenty minutes, he was back in our unit, welcoming incoming family, but clearly annoyed. His lament about a vehicle problem became the talk of the evening.

“Let’s go out and get a bite,” I offered to everyone. “How about some po’boy sandwiches at a great little place I saw on the island?”

Like a herd of tired, rumpled tourists, we left the condominium together. Determined to salvage the evening, I offered up my best cheery disposition to my husband.

“Let me drive the car. Maybe the lights will go off if we just run the motor for a bit.”

I got behind the wheel and headed down the road, but the icons on the dashboard continued their menacing gleam. To make matters worse, a line of eager diners was out the front door by the time we arrived at the restaurant.

Despite the setbacks, we put our name on the list and waited for a table. As we sat on benches outside, ready to be seated, my husband became cross. Gnawing hunger, mounting fatigue, and mechanical problems were winning the day. I prayed for an end of the bad attitude, even though I knew the reality of our situation. My husband was now in the land of “Hangery” (an ugly desert somewhere between hunger and anger). Only a good dinner and some rest could alleviate his attitude.

The next morning, armed with a cup of coffee in hand, my husband looked out at the beautiful ocean and called the service manager back home.

“He said it’s probably a sensor gone bad due to a recall that was missed at my last visit. The car should be fine, and I have an appointment for next week,” he announced once he was off the phone.

I smiled at my husband. He was finally rolling with the punches.

“You know, you really shouldn’t get so worked up over such little things,” my husband told me as I rubbed sunscreen on my face. “You can’t let things like a minor problem ruin our time with the family.”

“You’re right,” I said. “What was I thinking?”

“Like I always say,” he added, grabbing his flip flops, “don’t worry, beach happy.”