While scrolling my Facebook account, I came across a picture of The Lone Ranger. The thought came to mind that even he would not have been politically correct at this time in history—like a raccoon, his mask didn’t cover either his mouth or nose!
Neither would lots of car models from the 1980s and 1990s now be fashionable. How long has it been since you’ve seen a wood-paneled station wagon? Or a car with automatic seat belts?
In the 1990s I owned several Saturn automobiles. In my opinion, the Saturn was one of the best American cars manufactured. I almost got 300,000 miles on one of my preowned Saturns. I would have gone over 300,000 had I not inadvertently have put a quart of unrefined motor oil in it.
My earliest Saturn had automatic shoulder strap seatbelts. I think the idea of this feature was to ensure that motorists at least were partially protected, even if they chose not to buckle the lap belts. The shoulder straps could be unbuckled from the automatic retracting device, but in the interest of my own safety I chose to always use the feature. While driving, I thought it was great. When trying to enter or leave the car, this feature could be most troublesome.
Picture it. I’m on my way to work on a cold winter morning. I decide I need to start my car to let it warm up for about twenty to thirty minutes, not only so I didn’t freeze while driving the whopping ten minutes to work but to make it easier on the engine. On one particular day before the capability existed to remotely start my car from the warm confines of my home, I rushed outside to start the car. I was dressed just enough to be free from the accusation of public nudity. I forced the partially frozen driver’s door open, leaned inside, inserted the key. The engine turned over (thankfully), and the automatic shoulder strap on the seatbelt rose to sling my freezing, partially clad body against the cold leather seat. I lost my balance and barely prevented myself from falling onto the hard frost on the gravel in the driveway. With a few words of thankfulness to God that my car loved me so much that it wanted to hug me to it on that blustery winter morning, I regained my composure, extracted myself from the clutches of the shoulder strap, and staggered back inside to finish dressing.
Of course, the door to the house had locked behind me, and the house key was (again, thankfully) on the ring with the car key. Grateful for yet another opportunity to commune with my cold car, I stumbled back to the car, reached inside, retrieved the key, and got another love pat from the automatic shoulder strap, this time in reverse. Now as I was slung between the steering wheel and dash I could continue to be thankful to God that my car was demonstrating one of its most prominent safety features so consistently.
Back to the house to unlock the door. Back to the car to start it again and get another love squeeze from good ol’ faithful SB!
Twenty minutes later, after having sloughed off the cold in my bones from the “start the car” effort, and having managed to successfully dress myself in the warm, clean-smelling office work clothes of the day, I donned my winter coat and grabbed my second morning cup of ambition (known most commonly as coffee to the rest of the world). I locked the door to the house and trekked the ten feet to the surely-by-now warm car. Ah, yes! The frost had melted from all the windows and she purred like a well-fed kitten.
I opened the driver’s door, and the automatic seat belt retracted to allow me entrance. I entered, snuggled my rear “just-so” into the seat, and closed the car door. The automatic seat belt came at me, thrusting its force against my arm, turning my wrist to spill my cup of just-the-right temperature for drinking coffee all over none other body part save the straddle of my lap.
There is a saying some use about their workplace, “Working here is like peeing your pants in a dark suit. It gives you a warm feeling, but nobody notices.” Had this been most days, perhaps I would have been wearing dark pants. If so, I probably would have grumbled a little and gone on to work, letting everyone wonder what made them think of drinking coffee all day long, even when none was in sight. Unfortunately, I was wearing light colored slacks. Perhaps at that moment I came to understand why fashion dictated that white and light colors are not seasonable in winter.
By now, my thanks to God for the blessings of the day were mostly forgotten for the moment as I began telling my car exactly what SB stood for (and at that moment I’m afraid it wasn’t “seat belt”).
All of a sudden, it seemed like a good day to call in sick.
I shudder to think how bad the day might have been had the lap belt also, or rather than, have been the automatic part of the seat belt. It might then have possibly been called a chastity belt!
My wish for you, Dear Reader, is that your days begin more pleasantly than the one I just recalled. I must not be the only person who had mornings like this due to this now obsolete safety feature—just go out today and try to buy yourself a new vehicle with automatic seat belts.
I leave you with a small joke from my email world.
Why do turkeys only star in R-rated movies?
(Because they use fowl language!)