“How do you like your Jeep?” the older lady asked me. We had both just parked at the grocery store lot, and as we walked toward the entrance, I said, “I love my Jeep.”

“I have a bucket a bolts for…” she thought for a minute, clearly annoyed, and said, “it’s a Jeep Patriot, right? I’ve had nothing but trouble with mine. I don’t recommend a Jeep to nobody.”

“The next car I buy will be a Jeep,” I said.

“Good luck with that,” she said and walked away.

I had seen this lady around town through the years, mostly on the road, mostly driving her Jeep Patriot, and I marveled again at how small the world feels sometimes. I recently took my Jeep on a road trip throughout the Pacific Northwest, and I had zero issues with it during it, but I like to believe that is because I like to take care of it. I’m not saying she didn’t, but as someone who deals with technology on a regular basis, I can tell when something is cared for and when something is not.

I spent most of the day taking apart Chromebooks, removing broken screens and installing working ones, diagnosing others and labelling them with my notes, and reinstalling ChromeOS and re-enrolling them to our school domain. There’s a simple pleasure in fixing things, and sometimes I wish other areas of my life were as easy.

Someone I deeply cared about broke up with me a few months ago, and for a reason I cannot articulate, she weighed heavily on my mind today. As I fixed one machine after another, I tried to find a way to fix this pain I’ve felt and have been feeling for a while. I considered scenario after scenario, but each one led me down the same path: it’s over, and I have to move on.

Some things can’t be fixed, no matter how much I try.