Allow me to preface this article with this: I’ve never approached a guy before. If he doesn’t approach me, we don’t talk, end of story. That being said, apparently Indiana has changed me.
Like most stories that involve me, this one begins with an act of complete ridiculousness that ends up costing me a small fortune. What do you get when you combine a flipped semi at rush hour, a curb, and a vehicle with a flakey driver? Apparently a batch of cookies. We’ll get to that shortly.
So, at the risk of being overly verbose, I’m going to start from the beginning. But if you don’t care about the beginning (and I hold no ill will toward those who do not give an actual firetruck), skip the rest of this paragraph and the two proceeding it. So, I’m driving down the highway at a brisk 10 miles per hour, watching the clock tick away and contemplating just how late for work I’m going to be, when I see I have come upon an exit. I’ve never taken this exit, and I’m not sure where it will lead, but as Frost advises, I said screw it, and took the road less traveled. See? I can be pretentious when I want to be.
And let me tell you, I owned that exit ramp like it was my favorite pair of sunglasses and as I’m driving, driving, driving, feeling like Jack in the Titanic where they’re overlooking the ocean (really like I am the king of the world for winning the traffic game), I realize that traffic on the freeway might be moving. So, naturally, like anyone who wants to remain the winner of the traffic game, I contemplate going straight from the off ramp back on. But this requires careful calculation, and looking (not at the road that I’m presently driving), and timing how many cars are moving and at what rate, and turning from the off ramp onto the road, and putting the destination into my GPS so I can see what Google Maps has to say about the whole situation, wait – I’m supposed to be turning? And so I decide to look up at the road and realize I’m not quite making this turn as gracefully as I could be, but it’s too late, and smash. Right into the curb. Like, right into it.
So I’m sitting there, in the middle of a crazy busy road with a completely firetrucked tire and all I can think is, “How pissed would I be if some yokel did this to me and messed up this street for hours during rush hour?” So I drive on the rim down the road, my little car clunking along, wondering how bad the damage is, how much money it’ll be, how much evidence I’ll need to not get fired, etc. I pull into a church and I’m all, “Well, this sucks.”
Enter the sexy mechanic.
Okay. So I’ve got everyone back, right? Let’s re-begin (this is a word, I invented it) this article with a lesson in societal kindness: it almost doesn’t exist at all anymore. People aren’t nice to strangers, paying it forward is an outdated concept, and in the event that something kind does happen? Well, shit. You need to nurse that business. So I run (literally) to the mechanic, because it’s pretty close and I’m in panic mode. On the way, I call him, and he’s all charming and laugh-y and mentally, I’m like, “Hey, you seem cool.” I start my babbling and then I tell him I’m about to walk in, and then I do walk in, and we hang up. Really, nailed step one, right? Nothing quite like entering the building in a sweaty unkempt mess.
Long story a little shorter, this mechanic tells me no need to get a tow, he’ll just go to my car and fix it, and I can come pick it up later. He actually drove… to my car… to fix it… to save me money. Amazing. Who does that? No one.
And so fast forward two days, and we’re to Friday night. And I might have had one or two milkshakes (aka boozes) too many, and I’m talking about how to thank this dude for his kindness because, as said before, that shit needs rewarded. And I’m like, I’ll make him some cookies. And I’ll give them to him tomorrow. And I’ll give him my number. And my friends are all eyerolling and skeptical because I don’t do that, just give my number out. I’m a nervous wreck and I can’t face rejection and I knew in my heart of hearts that I’d never go through with it. Enter, the plan.
A step by step guide to picking up a mechanic:
(I had a friend spending the night, and at this point, yes, I was beginning to realize that this idea might have some faults). We got to Kroger at around 2:00 AM – perused the aisles looking for everything we needed (including envelopes, non-glossy paper plates, and the ingredients).
Oh and tape. Crap, knew I forgot something – oh well, I’ll make do with what I’ve got.
Now, it’s important to note that you should be eating minimal amounts of this chocolatey concoction at this point. Eyes on the prize, Michelle. Keep it together. I’m back to thinking this idea is brilliant, by the way.
#BRILLIANTBRILLIANTBRILLIANT!!! (I’m envisioning Yzma, from The Emperor’s New Groove; please to be using the voice. [And if you don’t know the voice, please to be watching the “Emperor’s New Groove” ASAP.])
So it’s like 3:30 A.M. or 4:00 A.M. – who in the actual hell knows anymore? Sleep deprivation has begun sinking in, but I’ve come all this way! I can’t actually stop now. So we bust out the envelopes (because I don’t have anything else in the apartment to write on, apparently, and start hacking at them. This is the result. (Complete with some boss photo-editing skills.)
Meanwhile… on the assembly line (the help that I enlisted is dutifully working away for the greater good) this is happening. Remember how I forgot tape? Can’t stop me now! Painter’s tape works just as well. Call me butter, ‘cuz I’m on a roll! Oh snap. It’s no wonder I don’t have a boyfriend at this point in my life. As I was saying…
To those who haven’t pieced it together yet – yes, every. single. cookie. I’m not super fond of doing things halfway, and if I’m going to give my number to a guy, I’m going to do it in style.
I’m pretty convinced this plan is the bomb dot com at this point.
Step 5? 4?
It’s really late at this point, probably there’s not a soul out there still awake, so who really cares what time it is.
I’ve decided that, just in case he didn’t get the memo, I’d write him this note. Let’s just go ahead and be clear of my intentions. No, sexy mechanic, that nine digit number is not a work of randomization, or the number to my favorite pizza shop. It’s my number, and I’d like for you to please be calling it.
I also took this as an opportunity to reduce my crazy factor by a little. I’m not sure if it worked, but hey – here’s to trying.
Step 6! Or 5! The finished product:
As I drove to the mechanic a mere three hours after going to bed, I contemplated what was happening. I recognized, in my morning-after haze, that this wasn’t the best decision I could have made. That maybe, just maybe, normal people don’t do shit like this. But you know? I never would have given him my number if I’d had to actually face the rejection, and this way he and his friends could enjoy some delicious cookies and have a laugh at his (and/or my) expense.
I almost turned the car around about 10 times, but didn’t.
I walked myself into that office and oh fuck me.
He wasn’t the one at the counter.
I stood in the doorway, half in half out, contemplating whether or not splitting right then and there or murdering myself on the scene would be a better option, when he walked in. I babbled nervously about how nice he had been and gave him my cookies (my number not visible to the casual observer), and then bolted.
Like probably actually ran.
He told me to come back in to get the tire fixed.
In the end, the sexy mechanic did not call.
But I’m sure he’ll always remember me.
The moral? I’m not sure there is one. I’d do it again in a heartbeat, and maybe it’ll work. And probably it won’t. But hey – if you’re feeling bold one day, give it a shot. It’s oddly liberating, really.
Any interesting pick-up stories? Post ‘em below!
About the Author
Michelle has a tendency to be sarcastic, say inappropriate things and more or less lacks any and all social skills. An ABA therapist by day, line dancing enthusiast by night and writer in those fleeting moments when she feels motivated to do anything productive whatsoever. Michelle dreams of one day finding love, a family and the perfect pair of flat black boots. She’s completed one novel, is pretending to write another and has begun (and shelved) several prior. She passionately reads, writes and shops (all the while avidly avoiding the Oxford comma).