verozco - THE DIVORCE

By Verónica Orozco A. @verozco

I am an independent woman and I am proud of it. Although I like men to be the ones to call first, open the car door and take off my jacket when I feel cold, my feminist side has taken the reins of my life since my divorce and living alone I have been faced with household chores that were always fulfilled by the male of the house: drains that are obstructed, bulbs that melt, plates of doors that are damaged, armed with beds and assembly of dining tables. And everything I've done without chromosomes and around me.

However, despite having "freed" me from the male yoke, I have never felt so damsel in need of rescue by a knight in shining armor like when I had to take the car to the mechanic.

In the past, I was never interested in anything that was related to the car other than looking nice and having gasoline. More than once my brain became Homer Simpson's - projecting 1930s cartoons that dance and play the accordion - as they tried to explain to me how the engine of a car worked or what if the bearing was broken. If the car had a noise, my solution was to turn up the volume to the music. The oil was always changed on its own, the tires never got worn out and the braking or alignment always happened magically.

But since when I got divorced I did not consider these "minutiae" the day the car began to behave weird. Suddenly she stopped responding with the same speed. He lived in a hurry, as if he had been with me. And in addition to this, he began to smell weird, like burnt. And then nothing, damsel in trouble without knight in shining armor is forced to face the dragon alone: ​​the mechanic.

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Entering the workshop was like going to Hombrelandia. A complete cliché. There are no women in several meters around, they talk to each other in an idiom that is understandable to me - hence the word "chumacera" - the shirt is worn without buttoning up to the navel and some of those who are working in a squat the problem of the breech of the buttock. All this in the middle of pieces of cars dismantled, motor grease as wallpaper and Darío Gómez at medium volume and poorly tuned.

Hombrelandia can be described as a neighborhood of Chavo but mechanics. Several open workshop doors looking at each other with a yard of engine parts in the center. There is no space for my car in the yard so I should leave it parked on the street and walk sliding the shoes around the oil floor carefully. As the unexpected visitor that I am, I receive more looks than I would like and find me a compliment that escapes one of the most audacious. My journey ends in Fredy's workshop.

Fredy the mechanic, my dragon, my nemesis, my nightmare is more adorable than a basket of Labrador puppies. Morenazo covered in oil of car, 1.80 of bonachonería, immense smile and a heart the size of its belly. He listens patiently and without laughing at my description of the symptoms of the car and we walk together to him.

"That's the clutch," Fredy concludes after examining the car. "That happens to these cars that have a turbo engine; those 180 horsepower causes you to have to use the ASR - 'electric traction control' - Google explained to me later - to reduce the excessive torque on the wheels, which makes the clutch less durable. "I mean, did the left foot pedal get damaged?" I asked. "That," Fredy smiles back at me.