Some inventions come about from sheer necessity – the wheel and pantyhose, for example. Others come about because people want a more convenient way to live – the electric light bulb and the Barcalounger.
Other inventions come along because somebody has a crazy idea – the Veg-O-Matic and a coffee frother. Both, however, were banished to the back of my kitchen cabinet after failing to deliver what the salesman promised.
But my favorite off-the-wall useful invention is the windshield sun shade.
They come in a variety of sizes and colors and cost less than 10 bucks. As a bonus, they block damaging ultraviolet rays from transforming a dark gray dashboard into the color of bones left in the desert sun.
The manufacturer promises that the shade “folds easily for compact storage.” If one has six arms and the skills of Houdini they fold easily. But for me, the shade refuses to cooperate.
I usually get so frustrated I just throw the whole contraption in the back seat, fully extended. One afternoon, my husband gave me a logical show-and-tell demonstration on how to fold the shade up in one easy-to-copy motion.
“Put your hands on either side of the panels,” he said, holding the sunshade up. I made a mental note to do just that.
“And then twist one side one way and the other side the opposite way,” he explained and, in a wink, that huge blue shade was the size of a dinner dish.
That maneuver looked pretty simple, and if I can manage parallel parking, I reasoned, folding up the sun shade should be a walk in the park.
The next day, I tried to duplicate my husband’s instructions. I twisted. The shade rebounded with a vengeance and knocked my sunglasses off.
I tried again. Instead of looking like a dinner plate, my attempt at refolding the sunshade resulted in a lop-sided rectangle the size of a suitcase. Frustrated and hot, I threw the unfolded shade in the back seat.
A few days later, my son spotted the uncooperative and still fully extended shade in the back seat.
“Mom, these are easy to fold up,” he said. “Let me show you.”
In three seconds, he had that shade folded and the elastic band firmly around the middle to keep it from exploding. I was amazed.
“Show me how to do that,” I said. “Explain it to me like I’m 5 years old. Make that 3 years old.”
Laughing, he went slowly through the steps again, and I actually managed to snap the shade into place.
That is until the next time I was in a hot parking lot by myself. I bent, I twisted, I folded – that shade did everything except what I wanted it to do.
“Fine,” I said in exasperation and banished it, fully extended, to the back seat.
The next passenger in my car was my daughter-in-law. I explained to her my frustration with that stupid car shade, and she patted me on the back.
“No problem,” she said. “My job when I was a teen was to fold my mom’s car shades for her. I’ll do the same for you.”
Finally someone who understood that not all of us have the flexibility of an acrobat to perform that magic folding trick.
Now if only she can show me how to use that Veg-O-Matic.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.