So, I scoffed about installing a carseat, but it turns out that it’s more challenging than I thought; I was told this unequivocally by the person who inspected it for us. The gauge on the side, telling you how straight it should be? It’s crap, it’s inaccurate. And you need way more tension on those cables than I had. And I had to buy some cut-down pool noodles to lift up one end, so it was level.
I was told all this, in this very terse manner, by a fellow named Michael who installs carseats professionally. Michael is a black man, about six foot nine and maybe two hundred and eighty tightly-strung pounds.
You wouldn’t think this would qualify or disqualify him from installing childrens’ carseats, and aside from the fact that there’s a noticeable pause between when he starts climbing into your car and when the last part of him makes it all the way through the door, I don’t either. But a few weeks ago here we were in a lonely corner of a Toronto industrial park, getting lectured on the finer details of child automotive safety by a man who clearly cared intensely about the subject, and who was coincidentally the largest man I’ve ever seen who wasn’t involved in pro sports.
It was a little surreal, but only because of some shameful preconceptions, so I’m not sure if there’s a word for that? Something that means “surreal if you’re ignorant”? Screw you, negative stereotypes, you’re never right about anything.
But after he tightened those belts down, the day I need to get that thing out of there I’m going to need a saw.