I never wash my car. Ever. It’s like a principle thing. Instead, I choose to wait. I wait for rain in LA. And I wait for my mother to visit me. One occurs slightly more often than the other, but the other is much more effective.
My car used to be my mom’s car. She didn’t take great care of it (meaning she’d bump into things), but she did a good job, and it sparkled more often than not. It’s not that she was only interested in keeping up appearances (which, admittedly she was), she just liked it.
I think that maybe she liked getting her car washed because she still feels the wonder and fun that only rainbow foam and scary, spinning sponges slapping the car can make you feel. Maybe she still feels like a little kid instead of what adults are supposed to feel like, what I feel like. She is still full of energy, tries new things, spends her money, and by and large, is absolutely crushing life. Maybe that’s what happens if you never stop getting car washes.