The heavens delivered. Literally.

This past Tuesday, I decided that enough was enough and it was time to finally bite the bullet and fork out the money to get my car washed. I haven't washed it in probably . . . um . . . 3 months. Ew. But before you judge me, you have to understand two things:

1. My car is 19 years old. It's an old lady. It has a dent dents. It is shaped like an oversized Easter egg. The paint is slightly oxidizing on the top, which creates the pleasant appearance of balding. It has a few age spots (rust spots). Do you get the idea? Washing doesn't make much of a difference because the car is not exactly a beauty queen to begin with. 
2. My car leaks. Really leaks. It leaks through the windshield. It leaks through the air conditioner vents on the ceiling. (Also, the air conditioner is broken, which is ever so lovely, especially in the summer. If you love the feeling of your flesh slowly melting off of your skeletal structure, come take a drive with me.) And when I say leak, I don't just mean a slight drizzle. I mean full on waterfall, Niagara Falls status, coming in the car. To make matters even more fantastic, the leak in the windshield is positioned precisely over the steering wheel, which makes for very interesting driving experiences. Let's just say it gets a little slippery.

Anyway, after making the fatal mistake once of somehow momentarily FORGETTING that my car suffers from leaky syndrome, and then proceeding to drive it into an automatic car wash, and then REMEMBERING my car's syndrome moments too late as car wash water came flooding into my car at an uncontrollable rate, I have avoided washing my car. In that moment, when all I could do was just sit there and allow the water to seep into my clothing because the stupid red light was on and I was trapped, I vowed I would never subject myself to this torture ever again.

So you could say I've had traumatic experiences.

But, after totaling the number of bird poops on my car and finding it to be an embarrassing amount, and after my cousin's hand became covered in black grime after closing my trunk, I decided it was time for an intervention.

I went to bed Monday night fully intending to wash my car the next evening.

And then . . . 

. . . it rained! REALLY rained. It rained so much that the sun-baked bird poop fell from my car like crumbs from a cookie. It was a beautiful thing. Even though it meant I had to drive home from work with a steady stream of water pouring all over my jeans and the steering wheel, and even though it meant I had to frantically use my small little red rag to try to dry the steering wheel while stopped at red lights, I endured it all with a happy heart, because every precious raindrop that landed on my car was the sound of dollars staying in my pocket and of avoiding an experience I find to be quite unpleasant and quite unnecessary.

So when I finally pulled into the safety of my driveway, I gave my car a once-over, wiped off one remaining stubborn fleck of bird poop (with a baby wipe, not my hand), and deemed her appearance acceptable.

No car wash today, ladies.

Thank you, clouds.