I’ve been retired now for a few years, you know, finally stepped away from the corporate grind after… well, after a lifetime, really. And everyone, absolutely everyone, tells you how great it is, how you’ll finally have time for yourself, for hobbies, for all those things you put off. And I *do* have time, I really do. But lately, like, especially when I’m trying to relax, or when I’m just sitting there watching the news, my mind keeps drifting back. Not to the big corner office, or the fancy lunches, or even the stock options, which were, you know, pretty good. No, it’s always the garage. Every single day, every single day, it’s the smell of oil and grease and that specific sharp tang of brake fluid. I started out on the floor, you know? A mechanic. For years, decades even. My hands, they just *knew* what to do with a wrench, with a torque converter, with an engine that was coughing and sputtering. There was this satisfaction, you understand? This pure, unadulterated satisfaction of finding the problem, diagnosing it, and then, slowly, meticulously, putting it right. And when that engine purred again, or when the wheels spun smoothly, there was this… this feeling of accomplishment that nothing else ever really matched. Nothing. People would come in stressed, upset, and they'd leave with their car running, and they’d be grateful. It was simple, direct. Then, you know, the promotions started. Because I was good, I was organized, I understood systems. So it was shop foreman, then regional manager, and before I knew it, I was in suits every day, sitting in boardrooms. Boardrooms, for crying out loud. And I was good at that too, I guess. I learned the lingo, learned how to play the games, how to make the numbers look good, how to manage expectations and, like, “optimize performance matrices.” I climbed that ladder, every single rung, all the way to a senior management role, overseeing, what, like, a dozen different service centers. And my peers, my wife, they were all so proud. “Look at you, son of a mechanic, made it all the way to the top,” they’d say. But here’s the thing, the real thing, the secret I’ve carried with me all these years and never said out loud, not once. When I was sitting in those meetings, listening to some junior exec drone on about "synergy" or "leveraging core competencies," my mind would just drift. I’d be thinking about a blown head gasket, or a stripped lug nut, or the satisfying click of a ratchet. I’d be remembering the feel of cold steel in my hand, the precise amount of force needed to loosen a stubborn bolt. And I'd look around at all those faces, all those suits, and I'd think, "What am I even doing here?" I mean, I made good money, had a nice house, all the trappings, but inside, every single day, every day, I felt like a fraud. And now, even in retirement, sometimes I’ll see a guy under a car, just on the side of the road, and I get this pang. This visceral, gut-wrenching pang. I just want to walk over, you know, and offer a hand. Ask what the trouble is. Feel that grease under my fingernails again. Forget about all the performance reviews, all the budget forecasts, all the endless, soul-crushing meetings about nothing at all. I miss it, you guys. I miss it terribly. And I have absolutely no idea what to do with that feeling, or even if it’s okay to feel it, after everything. After I worked so hard to get *out* of there. But there it is. Still. Right here.