IN THE VERY recent past, I found myself in a situation where I felt it was necessary to action some box breathing.

This is a breathwork method designed to calm the nervous system in the midst of high-stress situations. I was sitting in my car, on an otherwise fine morning, my gaze fixed on the singing robin perched on top of a fence across the way, and my heart was beating like the clappers.

I dragged air into my compressed chest cavity for the count of four. Held it for one, two, three, four, then released it slowly for four. On repeat. The robin flew away. I continued to box breathe.

I had not been rear-ended. Nor had I received bad news. I happened to be, against all of my natural instincts, in a messy three-lane ramshackle idea of a queuing system at a local garage before my NCT retest.

The entire place was giving emergency room. But instead of doctors milling about in scrubs, the yard was filled with roaming mechanics wearing high-visibility workwear. Instead of stethoscopes looped around necks, headsets were worn under beanie caps. And rather than medical clipboard charts, there were operatives triaging poorly cars using handheld diagnostic tools.

The dreaded NCT

I would have given anything to have been in a real doctor’s surgery waiting for my own MOT. Anywhere else, rather than there. 

With no discernible way of identifying where the queue began, I fretted that I had taken another customer’s place in the lineup. Some of the cars were occupied, their drivers casually scrolling on their phones, whilst others leaned lightly against the front of their vehicle, looking distracted.

In my rearview mirror, I watched a bevvy of delivery trucks roll in and reverse next to an area that was already overrun with what appeared to be abandoned vehicles, all of it adding to my increasing misery.

Already feeling hopelessly out of place, I attempted the math, a smorgasbord of mental calculations searching for a solution to my worst nightmare – how would I even begin to navigate my way out of this spaghetti junction? By reversing? With everyone watching? Please god, no. Breathing technique firmly abandoned, I wondered, not for the first time, why being at the car doctor caused me so much stress.

Unchartered territory

Perhaps unsurprisingly, findings from a UK study suggested a staggering 63% of women feel anxious visiting a garage alone. But a somewhat unorthodox reveal from the same study indicated that 53% of men admitted to feeling uncomfortable in the same environment.

Admissions for this included concern over appearing stupid, and a smaller cohort confessed to being embarrassed about the grimy condition of their car. 

Gen Z presents as the demographic most likely to suffer from auto anxiety, delaying car services as a result. 

My own anxiety surrounding auto workshops encompasses some of what the survey divested, but it is ultimately tangled up in massive sensory overload and feeling completely out of place. Plus, I do not speak the language. Possessing not even the tiniest clue about cars – when asked what I drive, I respond with, “a black one.”

I become discombobulated anticipating how I will have to absorb any ensuing mechanic jargon and then ask for a translation. Which I promptly forget. The financial cost of the visit is not gender specific. Men and women alike will share similar concerns, crucially, will it be the best price? 

I have been known to get jittery when the little red mark on the fuel gauge flickers. An experienced overthinker, I will only drive into a forecourt, one I am familiar with, in a manner that allows me to park up with the fuel tank adjacent to the pump. Every time I visit the supermarket, I have a very real fear that I will not be able to locate my “same colour as everyone else’s” car.

I have come up with a clever solution to this headache; I simply park in the same place each time and make sure my dog’s red lead is visible on the dash in case an inconsiderate elf-skin has the temerity to occupy the space next to me.

Bring back the petrol pump attendant

There are many other little life stressors that often make me think I am not built for this world. Not all of them are linked to petrol stations or mechanics’ garages. And don’t get me started on punctures and filling up the tank. Can we please start a petition for the return of the petrol pump attendants?

Knowing something typically does not help a situation. Knowledge by itself is not enough to create a change or make an improvement. Action is needed, a proactive effort. In my particular circumstance, being acutely aware of the anguish these male-dominated environments visit upon me does nothing for my blood pressure.

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Petrol pump attendants are long gone. Alamy Stock Photo Alamy Stock Photo

I know plenty of self-proclaimed passenger princesses who happily hand over every and all auto repair miscellany to the menfolk in their lives. Perhaps my action should be taking a leaf out of their book.

Did I pass?

“What ails you?” Eventually, a friendly face appeared at my open window, interrupting, or possibly distracting me from my anxiety-ridden musings. Because he was clad in the same bright yellow garb as the other worker ants and wearing the obligatory headset, I rightly assumed he was a mechanic and quickly explained my reason for being there.

He directed me towards an empty bay where my crooked car would receive “her” pre-op. Forty minutes later, I was handed my keys and relieved of a very pocket-friendly few bob.

My troubles neatly cleaved,  I still had to clear the worst hurdle; where is my car and what way is “she” facing? At least in the NCT centre, it is as if they are aware of my shortcomings and park “her” out front in a position that pleases me greatly. Facing the exit. Pointing towards home.  She passed, of course, given it was a retest, having failed the first time. That’s some respite, at least, for about five minutes, before I have to do it all over again. Oh, to have a brand new, shiny electric vehicle.

Cruising the journey home, enjoying the banter on the radio, I was enveloped in a blanket of triumph. A feeling I recognised as the one I like to bask in upon the completion of a difficult task.

Not even the garda checkpoint in my sightline had the power to throw me. Unless, of course, they were going to ask me to reverse onto the hard shoulder. In the interest of small mercies, they didn’t.

Gwen Loughman is the gatekeeper of four boys, one husband and a watcher over two dogs.