Zen and the Art of Chevy Cavalier Maintenance.

My wife has a 2003 Chevy Cavalier that her parents gave her, so now, I have a 2003 Chevy Cavalier, too. On our first date, I got my first glimpse of it: cobalt blue with its fading and cracked University of Georgia super G plastered to its rear window. I thought then that she needed a new car, and that was four years ago.

The amazing thing is, aside from some cosmetic damage, there is nothing wrong with the car. Sure, it sounds like a broken hairdryer, the driver's sun visor gave up and is now lying on the passenger side floor, and the dash has a fist-sized hole in it from where a shady Jersey City mechanic did a curbside speedometer repair -- but there's something endearing about the Blue Bastard. Maybe it's the memory of my wife -- then my girlfriend -- pulling up to my Montclair apartment listening to the first mix tape I made her.

Now that I'm her husband, I feel like it has fallen to me to do husbandly things, like keep the damn thing running. This is no hardship. I enjoy working on cars, though I'm only slightly north of inept when it comes to auto repair. The Blue Bastard has had its way with me. Twice.

There's a keloid across the back of my right hand from the passenger side brake caliper. One of the bolts holding it in place would not budge. With all of my weight bearing down on the allen wrench, it popped out of its socket, and the back of my hand scraped across the caliper, taking a good chunk of flesh with it.

Most recently, the oil drain plug got the better of me. Since I began doing basic car maintenance, I've only owned Japanese vehicles. Working on an American car, I assumed the drain plug would be a standard size. Wrong. I stripped the 13 mm bolt down to about 12 mm before giving up and realizing the error of my ways hours later. Forty dollars later for a set of bolt extractors and a new drain plug, the lesson has been learned. (Never use a crescent wrench for anything on an automobile. And never assume anything, no matter how logical.)

By its very definition, maintaining my wife's Chevy Cavalier is a labor of love. It gives me great satisfaction to do these small things, personally, to keep her moving and keep her safe. And I appreciate her patience when I say I'm going to attempt a repair, and the job comes in late and over budget.

Eventually, the Blue Bastard will give up the ghost. My wife will get the hybrid she wants and my Chevy maintenance days will be over. Though I will be released from my Cavalier custodial duties, I will relinquish them with a heavy heart.

Plus, there's no way I'll be getting near the inner workings of any hybrid. Electricity terrifies me.

So happy; I could die: Thoughts of a recently married man.

I've been married for a little more than a month. During that time, several people have asked me what it feels like -- if it feels any different to be married. The easy answer was, no, it doesn't feel much different. After all, this isn't something Frances and I went into lightly, and having lived together for almost two years prior, we had essentially been living the life of a married couple.

There are, however, a few differences I've noticed that can't be articulated as well in a sentence as they can be here. So for those of you who asked and got the short answer, here's the long answer.

One of the major differences is that I'm more aware of my own mortality than I ever have been. In the run up to the wedding, I joked to a few friends about having these moments, mostly when I'm driving too fast. I catch myself thinking, Slow down. You can't die now. You're not allowed to die now. I'm stunned twice over by thoughts like this for two reasons:

a) The obvious feeling of fear or anxiety that something like driving didn't used to provoke.

b) That I was once so non-nonchalant about the possibility of dying. Not that I had a death wish or was suicidal. I knew the end was out there, but I was confident that it wouldn't be today. It wouldn't be for a long time. Now, I'm not so sure...

As a married man, the anxiety that was once a dull hum is now more audible, especially while doing the following: wandering down dark streets, encountering black bears while walking the dog, riding in boats, or operating or repairing any piece of equipment with the potential maim or kill. This includes, but is not limited to, putting new brakes on my car, testing the draw length and weight of my bow, crossing busy streets, and moving a chainsaw from one side of the garage to the other.

It's not that I'm paralyzed with fear. But being married has made me more aware of how temporary and fragile life is. Maybe this is part of the reason why married men tend to live longer. I love my wife. I love our life together. I don't want it to end. So maybe I'll pass on that motorcycle. Maybe I'll skip out before the last round. Maybe I'll have another helping of Brussels sprouts.

Whatever it takes to give me more time with her.