After the rains, I brought my car to the car wash, mostly because the mud on the doors was starting to look like a topographical map.
I pulled into the line and felt a mix of impatience and relief.
There’s something comforting about knowing the car will get clean without me lifting more than a finger.

As the conveyor belt grabbed the tires, I settled back and let the whole thing happen.

The first splash of water hit the windshield. I’m not in control anymore. And honestly, that’s kind of nice.

The soap started sliding down in slow streaks, like the car was getting a spa day.

I watched the colors swirl... red... blue... none of which exist in nature but all of which somehow feel necessary.

The brushes came next, beating against the side like a giant trying to knock politely. Every time they hit, the whole car shook, and I wondered why that still surprises me.

It’s the same routine every time, yet it always feels slightly dramatic.

The rain had already done half the job, but rain never finishes what it starts. It leaves behind streaks, dust, and that faint film that makes the car look tired.

So here I am, letting machines do what the sky couldn’t be bothered to complete. The rinse cycle washed away the neon foam, and for a moment everything outside looked like a watercolor painting.

The world blurred into soft shapes and muted colors. It’s funny how a car wash can feel like a tiny break from reality.

A few minutes where you can’t go anywhere, you can’t do anything.

You can’t multitask. You just sit.

You just wait. You just watch water do its thing.

The dryers roared to life, loud enough to drown out any thought.
I didn’t want to think anyway.

The air blasted across the windshield, pushing away the last drops of water.

I always check the mirrors at this point, even though there’s nothing to see but distorted reflections. The whole process is over in minutes, but it feels longer in a good way.

A pause. A reset. A tiny moment of order in a week that didn’t have much of it.
As the light turned green, I rolled forward and out into the open air.

The car looked cleaner, sure, but it also felt lighter. Maybe I did too. There’s something about watching grime get washed away that makes you think about the stuff you’re carrying around.

Not the physical stuff...though I should probably clean out the trunk...but the mental clutter.

The worries that stick like dried mud. The thoughts that streak and smear no matter how many times you try to wipe them off.
Maybe that’s why I like car washes more than I admit. They’re simple. Predictable.

A guaranteed transformation, even if it’s small. And sometimes small is enough.
Driving out, the sun hit the hood just right, and for a second, the car looked brand new. Not bad for a few minutes of sitting still.