Mom gets in, asks when I got a new car.
I explain that the car isn’t new, that I’ve owned it for a decade.
She insists that it must be new. “This is not your car, Michael.”
I drive, she keeps up the pressure.
“Well, I’ve never been in this car before,” she says.
“I don’t have a record or anything, but I’m pretty sure you’ve been in this car at least one hundred times.”
“Are you kidding? You’re kidding, right? This is a new car.”
“It’s old. Do you see a Bluetooth in here?”
“I don’t know what that crap is, Michael. But I know you’re messing with me; this is a new car.”
We stop at the light. I point to the odometer.
“Coming up on 100,000 miles,” I say. “Definitely not a new car.”
The light changes. We drive in silence for a couple of blocks.
“Well, something is different.”
“I cleaned it recently.”
“That’s it! Without all your crap everywhere I didn’t recognize it.”
“So it’s like a new car?”
“Oh shut up, Michael.”