Nov 5, 2021 4 min read

The first car I ever bought new croaked on a bridge over the Monongahela River because I didn’t think to have the oil changed. Ever.

Those were my 20s, my young and rather stupid years when the only car-related thing that got my attention was whether the engine would start when I turned the key. I don’t remember if I had the engine repaired or if that was the car I traded in for something else, but I do remember a tow truck late at night, and the inconvenience of the experience.

Since then, I’ve been diligent about oil changes, preferring to pull into one of those places that overcharge for the convenience of staying in your car while they do the work. Every oil change comes with efforts to upsell me, most notably that moment when the worker hoists a grimy air filter toward the windshield and offers to replace it.

“Twenty-four-ninety-nine,” the worker says, and I always decline.

But this week, that air filter was opaque with dirt, and I knew it was time. But something about that $24.99 didn’t sit right.

“Thanks, but I’ll take care of that myself,” I said, and then I drove out of the repair bay wondering if I’d made a $25 mistake that would soon strand me on a bridge somewhere and cost me a new engine.

I got myself to an auto parts store. In the parking lot, I popped the hood and then fumbled around awhile trying to find the latch to open it. I knew the air filter lived on the left side under the hood because I’d watched as the oil change guy put the dirty one back in. I poked around awhile then landed on a box sitting next to a fat hose and, figuring air from the engine was probably blowing in that direction, I unlatched the box and voila! – pulled out the dirty filter.

“I need a new one of these,” I said to the man at the counter.

“Yeah, she’s dirty,” he said, a comment that was both strangely anthropomorphic and also somewhat embarrassing.

“Sorry,” I said, as if apologizing to the person about to groom my dog.

Having seen the shameful condition of my air filter, the nice man followed me to my car to help me put in the new one. I raced ahead and got under the hood first and pointed out that I’d already unlatched the box. He slid the new filter in, locked the box and dropped the hood.

“You’re all set,” he said, brushing the dust from his hands, and I thanked him about 30 times. The fix had cost me less than $9.

Driving away, I almost wished I had done the whole thing myself, because I know I could have. There is something so deeply satisfying about solving a problem that I could easily have paid someone else to do. Today, my car air filter. Tomorrow, who knows?

This has opened a whole new world of possibilities. Replacing my brake rotors? Cleaning the gutters? Chopping down dead trees? Trapping groundhogs?

Feeling newly mechanically inclined and emboldened by my success, I stopped at the hardware store to buy another air filter, this one for my furnace. After wandering around the cavernous aisles for about 10 minutes, I was finally approached by a man in an orange apron.

“Need help finding something?” he asked. And I, the doer of mechanical tasks, proudly waved him off.

“Nope, I got this,” I said. I found the filter two aisles over.

I replaced it all by myself.