The death of a nonexistent love

About a month or so ago my wee VW hit the milestone of 100,000 miles. I bought Baby Beluga when she already had about 37,000 miles in her little soul and have steadily added the other 60,000 toting my brood around to soccer games and fast food drive through lanes. But now that the old girl has some miles on her she is due for some tune-ups, belt changes and the like,plus our little shit of a dog, Mouse, gnawed away part of my seatbelt in a fit of separation anxiety and I need to replace the belt. So I have been visiting the VW shop quite a bit lately as I piece together the repair schedule in a manner that fits my single mommy budget. This hit on my bank account might usually send me to bed with sadness that the kids and I couldn’t burn through our meager funds by trolling the aisles at Target but here’s the thing…. My VW mechanic? Smokin’ hot. Oh yeah. No. I’m not talking about the guy who owns the shop. Although I adore him simply because he openly hates Goerge W. and ends the message on his voice mail with a shrieking, “IMPEACH BUSH!” His name is Richard and he is most definitely wicked cool. He is missing one of his front teeth and has a cool-ass sense of humor. We chat about VW’s every time I visit his shop and how although there are other, worthy, German cars, a VW is really the only car to drive or worship. But it is Richard’s assistant, Harry, that has caught my eye for the past few months. This man is beyond hot. He doesn’t sport a pair of car mechanic overalls with his name emroidered on the pocket but rather faded jeans and what looks like a dark gray woolen sweater with an absurd ear flappy hat atop his head. Now, he might not wear this particular get up every time I visit the garage but I perceive him as wearing it, sort of like the cast of Scooby Doo wears the same outfit for every episode and damn if he doesn’t look freaking fine in it. And his eyes? Piercing blue. He is tall, a bizarre requirement that even I don’t understand but it seems to be the only thread that ties together any man I have ever felt any sort of groin tug towards. And he loves his VW’s. On my last visit, when he invited me into the inner sanctum of the garage where he showed me why it cost me $72 to replace my headlight bulb, he revealed to me that he only likes to drive Cabriolet’s. Hello? That was my very first car. And my favorite car. Ever. And this tall drink of water prefers this drive over a car more appropriate to his long legs. Truly he is a poet.
Now the healthier person would be content enough to leave this all alone. It means any visit I pay to the repair shop will be a happy one and I will always be more than pleased to fork over whatever Richard asks for the repairs. I can flirt, smile, chat and get a little bit giddy for a time. But me? Oh no. I drive home envisioning the time when Harry and I will meet and date and frolic in the mountain paradise. For a time we will blissfully share our love for all things beautiful and then he will slowly realize that I love my three kids more than him and that even though they are cute, they are huge pains in his butt and really don’t want me to date a poet-mechanic. He will find it difficult to get a word in edge-wise with all the voices in my head and become quietly hostile. In turn I will become needy and constantly nag him about what’s on his mind. Finally, he will demand that I seek help from another mechanic and I will lose all VW support for my car. Yes, in only 12 miles my innocent infatuation always deteriorates into the scenario of dysfunction. And while many people might find this disturbing, for me it only means that I can continue to receive fabulous vehicle support while gazing upon the loveliest mechanic ever.