Since I don't drive much at night, I seldom need to turn on the headlights. That means I haven't developed the unconscious muscle memory of reaching for the light switch. I still fumble around, turning on the interior light or knocking the air vent askew.
GM engineers and stylists haven't made it any easier. They put the switch low on the dash, down out of my peripheral vision, where the steering wheel blocks my view.
I suppose it's my "fault" that most of my vehicles had headlight switches on stalks by the steering wheel. And maybe I got a little spoiled by a car with automatic headlights.
Welcome to the 20th Century School of Automotive Engineering
But, what can I do about it? Like so many less-than-ideal things in life, I'll adapt. I'll get used to it—sometime before that future day when the Rolling Steel Tent heads to the scrapyard. Unless I beat it there.
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