Artificial lemon scent threatens to make me gag. It’s like the cleaner I’d smell as I walked the sterile halls of grade school. Only it was orange then. And not freshly picked. More like freshly puked. I always knew when someone had because that’s when the air got pungent with citrus.

The Ford dealer’s lobby I’m in seems nearly as antiseptic, except there’s a concoction of oil and rubber with it. Which is better somehow. Less…vomit…y.
I don’t want to be here but I brought my bag of goodies, so I can endure. This leather chair is much more comfortable than the plastic one I chose at first. There’s greenery, plants and trees to fool me into thinking the cold tile environment is actually homey. It isn’t, I’m sorry to say. No inviting space has professional grade floor mats and silver auto shades hanging on their walls. I’m onto you.
The gray t-shirt with the Ford emblem isn’t even tempting me. In fact, I feel like I’m breaking a rule just by being here. Where I come from, make of vehicle is religion.

“You ain’t ever gonna park a Ford in my drive.”

Which is why my husband made it into the family. OK, he’s also incredibly likable, respectful, and was initially intimidated by my dad. But his white, lifted Chevy definitely earned him extra credit. Even with the tinted windows.

Chase and I buy Toyotas now. Exclusively. So we’re safe from the trenches of battle. Though honestly speaking, I think he’s grown; my dad that is. We gave him grandkids, and that just covers a multitude of sins.

My legs are crossed casually and through office calls and employee chatter I can hear country music. If I so desire I will tap into Wi-Fi and get a cup of burned decaf. I might consider the auto shade but the t-shirt is no temptation.
Old stigmas die hard. I guess Ford and I can be friends now. And friends don’t let other friends smell like lemon and bile. We can work through this.
Just don’t tell my dad yet. I’ll break it to him slowly.