HOW TO PUT ON A SEATBELT
Interview Question: Explain to us the process and benefits of putting on a seat belt.
“Meme, do you need help?” Ever since I was a kid, my grandma struggled to put on her seatbelt. Maybe it’s because she’s a bit of a diva, or because her belly slowly grew and grew from the five scoops of butter pecan ice cream she eats every night. Or maybe it’s because she’s 98-years-old and spent half of her life sitting in seatbelt-less Cadillacs. Regardless of the reason, it’s always an ordeal that requires patience and practice.
Here’s how to put on Meme’s seatbelt:
Meme always gets in on the driver’s side—it’s the closest to her house. Move the buckle to the left so she doesn’t sit on it. If you forget, she’ll gasp and grunt as if she’s just sat on a bed of nails.
Wait for her to settle in. There will be heavy breathing and exasperated sighs, even though she’s barely done a thing. After your dad closes the door, ask her if she needs help. She’ll be a bit confused and likely say, “What did you say? Help with what?”
Be patient and calm. Kiss her on her powdered, wrinkled cheek as you reach across and pull the belt across her body. You may need to give it a tug to pull out as much as you need.
At this point, she’ll make a joke about how she needs to stop eating so much dessert, particularly if she’s wearing her fluffy mink coat like an oil baron. Laugh, because the truest of jokes are the funniest. But tell her she’s perfect and she’s 98 and she better be eating dessert every night.
Pull out the buckle that’s slowly starting to slide under her tush. Say, “Pardon me, ma’am!” because she’s a southern gal that deserves your respect.
Click the handle into the buckle and assure her that she’s all buckled in—that she’s safe.
The final step is the most important step of all: Hand her her purse. Your mom snagged it before walking out of the house. It’s full only of Kleenex and her expired driver’s license, but she’ll remember her purse before she remembers that no, you’re not still in high school.
Why, might you ask, is it so important to put on Meme’s seatbelt? Other than saving her precious life from the perils of your father’s driving that continues to worsen, there’s one important reason: It’s the moment, or the string of moments every Sunday since you were old enough to sit without a bumper seat, that you’ll remember. You’ll remember her stark white hair, permed but squished up against the seat back. You’ll remember her soft mink coat that you pet like a cat as she looked out the window and asked you if you had a boyfriend yet in her thick southern drawl. You’ll remember every time you told her you loved her sapphire ring and all the times she told you that it was a gift from the love of her life. You’ll remember, in what will likely be the last decade of her life, her confusion as to where in the world we were driving, and her childlike awe at how big the city is getting. And one day, when she passes, you’ll drive by her house and make sure your own seatbelt is buckled in and secure.