I’d forgotten how much I enjoy the little pleasures.
I finally took my car to the autobody shop to get an estimate on a new paint job. The figure is pretty high, $2,063.72, but I can’t buy a new car for what it will cost to fix all the dings, strip it down, and repaint it. Given that it’s 13 years-old, only has 55,000 miles on the odometer and still runs like a dream I think it’s probably worth the cost of the body work
While I was waiting for the guy who owns the place, little Italian guy from Italy Italian (and what is it, exactly, about ex-pat Italians in America that compels them to cover every wall surface with maps of Italy?), to finish looking up my VIN to determine the proper paint code and that the car wasn’t stolen I plunked a quarter into the gum machine in the office (“A portion of the proceeds are donated to the American Cancer Society” — I guess this is to encourage you to chew gum and rot your teeth instead of smoking a cigarette and destroying your lungs).
The gum was square, Chicklets style, and I got a decent handful for my 25 cents. While I was chewing the two orange ones — always start with the orange ones because they’re usually exactly what they appear to be — I felt happy and couldn’t figure out why. It was only later that I realized that it was that vaguely recalled little-kid sensation of not being ripped off by a vending machine, of taking my hand away from the metal shute and realizing that there was a good weight of material in my palm.