It’s a dizzying game of ‘musical cars’

I have been playing “musical cars” lately and I am convinced it is as good a mental gymnastic as Sudoku is. I have gone from my daughter’s tiny, crumbling Honda Civic to my father’s luxury, aircraft carrier of a Lincoln Towncar. Talk about extremes. It left me a little cross-eyed and cranky.
The first challenge, of course, is getting the doors open. On my car, I’m required only to have the key somewhere on my person so yes, I am spoiled. On my father’s car you need to get out the keyfob and push a button. On my daughter’s car, you need to put in the key and hope that when you turn it, something positive will happen to at least one door. There’s a good chance it won’t lock again later.
The next challenge is adjusting the seat. There are so many buttons and levers to arrange the Lincoln’s seat; it almost gives you a massage. With any of my children’s cars, I always have to bring the seatback up from so prone a position you can barely see over the dashboard, to a high enough level to support my sad, old back.
The size of the car is irrelevant when it comes to finding the headlight switch. It is always somewhere obscure and annoying. I can count on turning on the windshield wipers at least once during that search, and probably again while trying to signal a turn, find the gas tank lid release or the trunk opener.
At least the cars aren’t stick shifts. I haven’t had the opportunity to burn out a clutch in years, and have absolutely no wish to do so. I remember thinking stick shifts were the most fun ever when I was a 20-something. I thought jump-starting a car was hilarious then, too.
Window management was a constant issue between the cars. Just to be contrary, I am certain, electric window buttons switch locations and directions from car to car. Then on my daughter’s budget version, it’s back to hand-cranking, except once rolled down, you need a hydraulic crank or her boyfriend to get them back up again. You can choose to either suffocate or lose your hairdo. There’s no in-between.
You can, however, get in and out of any parking spot in both my daughter’s car and mine. It is a very different world of depth perception and spatial concepts in the Lincoln. Imagine driving your entire living room, from the couch. Imagine thinking the hood ornament is sitting somewhere on the earth’s horizon. Suddenly every parking lot seems so absurdly small, and getting that beast into my normal parking spaces was out of the question. The extra walking from a distant open parking row, no doubt, was good for me.
The greatest challenge of all is the radio. The overriding theme seems to be “make it illogical.” If the button looks like it should turn, make it push. Also, write several meaningless and obscure letters on every button, avoiding obvious words like “on,” “off,” “volume,” “AM” and “FM.”
The “seek” button will never do the same thing on two different cars. I ended up listening to what might have been a Mauritanian cymbal festival before I just gave up.
I tried not to get too attached to my own car but have failed utterly. You may keep your enormous luxury cars and your teeny, efficiency cars. I absolutely revel in getting back into my own just-right auto. I have a newfound understanding of Goldilocks.