Goodbye Perfect

Posted on by stilllearning2b

My new car has its first battle wound. A 4-inch scrape on the rear quarter panel that I spotted after work on Thursday.

My first response was disbelief, how could this laceration be there? Yet its reality was confirmed when it failed to rub off with an improvised buff from the corner of my jacket.

I then became angry. How dare someone assault my car in the parking lot and fail to leave a note? I entertained the idea of driving back to the gym where I had just returned from to look each car in the eye, scanning for guilt.

And then we noticed there were no signs of foreign paint on the car’s body. No lipstick on its collar. So maybe the injury occurred under my watch, even though no reverberations were ever felt nor screeches heard.

I became frustrated with myself.

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

As I surveyed my car, all I could see was the bare metal taunting me through the alien-green skin.

I became overwhelmed as Brock talked body shops and estimates, trying to figure out when I would have time to make a call or take it in. Phone in hand, pulling up the calendar to locate the next school break.

“Take my car tomorrow and I’ll take it in to get an estimate.”

I argued. Dismissed. Both then and through dinner. Not wanting to impose and, even more, not wanting to pay. The release of funds still linked to a release of anxiety.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

The estimate arrived via PDF the following afternoon.

$500

Ouch. That hurt almost as much as the wound.

“Don’t worry about it,” I emailed Brock. “I don’t want to pay that much.”

I thought about securing a vinyl tattoo for my car to embrace its scar.

Once I arrived home, Brock walked me through the proposed procedure. On a whim, he continued talking and listening while he located a can of spray polish and vigorously scrubbed the injured area.

And simply by removing the minor associated scuffs, the task at hand seemed doable.

“How about I just order some touch-up paint and we do this ourselves?” I questioned, noting the lack of any deformation in the curve of the body.

“I think that’s a great idea.”

I relaxed.

I realized that I was pushing back against the professional repair for more than just the cost.

The body shop would have restored my car to perfect.

And with perfect comes the pressure to maintain perfection.

Goodbye perfect.

I no longer listen to your siren song.

 

The “F It” Point

Posted on by stilllearning2b
f it

I’m not sure the exact moment I reached the “F it” point with my car, but I can easily identify the factors that contributed to the mindset.

I think it started with the broken trunk that refused to open without a complicated and tedious routine that involved simultaneously twisting a key, wiggling a latch and saying a prayer. I would only engage in the routine on those rare occasions when I needed to carry some large object that couldn’t be fed through the doors (okay, or when I “needed” to carry an insanely large amount of plants). It simply became too difficult to open the trunk to clean out errant receipts and other detritus that seems to accumulate in a car.

And then the leather seats (that elicited a disappointed “Oh, Lisa” from my mother upon hearing about my new purchase) started to crack at the point where the seat belt cuts into their previously-oiled hides. And once the orange foam guts started to spill, it seemed superfluous to condition the remaining leather.

The “F it” attitude intensified as my life disintegrated. The car and I were both jettisoned from our safe and secure life, leaving its metal frame exposed to the elements instead of protected in a garage. As the silver skin gained dimples from the repeated assaults launched by storms and the paint faded under the glaring intensity of the sun, I grew to care less about cleaning the exterior.

I realized recently how complete this attitude has become when my neighbor backed into my car, displacing and cracking the bumper, and I honestly replied “Don’t worry about it” when he came to my door to confess.

I knew it was time to break down and buy a new car once the “F it” attitude extended to the mechanical systems. When the needle indicated an overheating engine a few weeks ago, I found it difficult to summon even the small amount of energy and money needed to replace the malfunctioning thermostat.

Today, I’m working on cleaning out and cleaning up my car in preparation to sell it. It’s strange. The motions bring back memories of carefully maintaining the car for the first ten years of its life. Even though I no longer care, I remember when I cared very much. I just can’t summon that feeling any more.

Because that’s the thing with “F it” points. Once they’ve been reached, there is no turning back.

And the only thing you can do is walk away.

Alone

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I don’t believe my ex intended to leave the marriage via text.

In fact, what I think he had planned was much worse.

I was across the country when he packed his belongings into his car and drove away from his life. I was supposed to return to Atlanta six days later, where I was expecting my husband to pick me up from the airport.

I believe his original plan was to continue to play at normal on our daily phone calls so that I would arrive at the Atlanta airport to wait for a ride that would never come. And be left helpless and penniless with accounts that had already been drained.

It’s strange. Even though I never experienced abandonment that stranded me at Atlanta Hartsfield, a part of me experienced the trauma of being alone, marooned and confused as I waited expectantly for a husband that no longer existed.

And sometimes that trauma is triggered.

And my response is not rational.

My emotions greatly overshadow reality as part of my brain becomes that abandoned wife frantically awaiting a sign that everything is okay.

 

Last week, after a long Friday at work, I went to start my car only to discover it was flatlined. It was no cause for panic – I was parked safely in a well-known and well-lit parking lot. I had coworkers around who could help. Brock was in town and at home, just twenty miles away. My AAA card was in my purse and I still had one more free tow remaining. I had money in my account to pay for a cab, if it came to that.

In other words, I should have been calm.

I was anything but.

It’s like a breakdown of my car leads to a breakdown in me.

I didn’t take the time to lift my hood and fiddle with my battery. I didn’t ask if someone could jump my car. All I could think about was getting home.

Not being stranded.

I ran back into the building to locate a coworker who drives past my neighborhood on her way home. And I left my car behind.

Brock and I returned to the school a few hours later, where my car started up fine as soon as it felt the caress of the jumper cables. I drove home without incident.

But all week, my anxiety was present.

I didn’t trust my car.

It’s strange. The feeling I had mirrored the anxiety and helplessness I felt at the end of my marriage. Afraid of being abandoned, afraid of not having enough money to survive and yet also scared to look too closely at what may be under the hood.

I just wanted everything to be okay.

To keep on running.

The car obeyed until yesterday, when it again abruptly refused to start. And again, I left it in order to return to the security of home. A home with a husband who again helped me retrieve the car, this time putting a new battery under the hood before making sure I made it home safely.

 

And even though the car is securely tucked into the garage and I’m snuggled comfortably with my husband in front of the fire, a part of me is still scared.

Scared that my car will betray me again.

Scared that I’ll be stranded and helpless.

Scared that I’ll be abandoned and alone.

 

A huge hug of gratitude to the friends who drove me home:)

 

The Husband Test

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I think I’ve developed a new test to see if a guy is husband material. Now, it’s probably not foolproof and I’m not going to offer a money-back guarantee or anything, but then again, I’m not going to charge you anything for it either.

All you have to do is go car shopping with him. Not looking for a car for you. Or even for a car that is designated to be shared from the outset. But for a car that is going to be his.

I can hear you now, “Lisa, did you hit your head ziplining the other day? Or maybe you’re finally having one of those teacher breakdowns. This is just nuts.”

Hopefully you know by now that I’m anything but normal and you trust me enough to hang with me.

Until 2005, my ex went through an assortment of cars, most of which I never drove. There was the 1956 Chevy without power steering that felt like wrestling the Hulk. There was the 1992 Integra he got from my mom whose clutch was out of reach for my petite femurs. This was followed by a pickup truck whose dimensions and layout intimidated me.

And then in 2005, he decided he wanted a good car. A new car. His own car. He decided on a 4Runner to maintain some of the utility of the truck while gaining the luxury of leather and fully conditioned space.I went with him to the dealership where I briefly test drove the vehicle in a parking lot after my husband took it through its paces on the open road. Even though my name was on the loan and on the title, that was only time I was ever behind the wheel.

Now, in all fairness, some of that was my doing. It was a large vehicle and driving it was out of my comfort zone. But asking to drive it was even more out of my comfort zone. Although generous in many respects, I somehow understood that his car was not mine to drive. It was his domain. And I was always a visitor.

Many years later, I was home sick from work, sleeping on the couch in my apartment. The phone rang, waking me from my feverish slumber. Seeing Brock’s name on the display, I picked up the phone and mumbled a groggy and somewhat irritated, “Hey.”

“I need you to come with me to buy a car.”

“What? I’m sick; I feel like crap. That’s the last thing I want to do,” I complained. I knew his old car was on its last legs and a new purchase was imminent, but seeing that we had only been dating for 6 months, I didn’t see what it had to do with me.

“I found a car I like and that should work, but I won’t buy it if you can’t drive it.”

What else could I do? I put some clothes on and stumbled down the stairs and met him in the parking lot of my complex. On the drive across town, he talked through the purchase, enumerating the pros and cons of the used CRV. I tried to pay attention, but it honestly became a blur. Once at the dealership, he insisted that I drive the car. Not just in a parking lot. But on a road. Certain that I was comfortable (or at least as comfortable as I could be with a raging case of strep throat), we went inside to the offices. I read a book while he handled the negotiations and all the paperwork. This time, I had no financial or legal claim to the vehicle, yet I already felt more like a co-owner than I ever did with the 4Runner.

His initial generosity with the car has continued; I’ve driven it on and off over the years, especially when my car is being naughty. But, at the end of the day, it’s just a Honda. And a used one at that.

The real test actually hit this past week. When we first met, Brock had a motorcycle that he loved. He eventually decided to sell it (I think the fun/danger ratio finally got to him) with the intention of someday buying a Corvette to take its place. I’ll be honest, I never understood the…well, drive for the muscle car. It seemed silly to me, but it was important to him.

Recently, he’s been getting closer to making that dream a reality. And, also recently, my car has been throwing a hissy fit. I saw the two events as basically separate. The ‘Vette, although still a dream, was his baby. And the CRV would frequently be required for his work. My transportation was another issue entirely. So I was shocked yesterday at his proposal, “There’s a Corvette I’m going to look at tomorrow and I want you to come with me. I want to make sure you can drive it.”

He went on to say that if my car’s recent tantrum turned out to be the beginning of the end, we could sell my car and make the Corvette my primary vehicle until I was able to get my own car.

I think my jaw dropped. This was his dream and I was more than just invited. I was being offered the keys.

We test drove the car. And, even as nonchalant as I am about all things car, I have to admit it was pretty freaking awesome. And even better, my foot reaches the clutch.

From there, we went to go pick up my car after its most recent surgery. I’m happy to report that it received a clean bill of health and a prognosis of a long and healthy life ahead.

When it comes down to it, I really don’t care that much about what I drive.

But what I do care about is that I now have a husband that will let me take the driver’s seat.

Even if he does tease me for going too slowly:)

Dependable

Posted on by stilllearning2b

My husband made me cry today.

Yeah, I know. He didn’t really “make me” cry. I have the choice in how I respond, blah, blah, blah.

Because the way I see it today is that his actions could have led to no other response.

 

Let me explain and let’s see if you agree.

Today was Lisa Arends’ terrible, horrible, no good very bad day.

It started on my early morning commute to work. I was a couple miles from the house this morning when my “check engine” light came on and the car started feeling funny. I immediately pulled into a parking lot and shut off the engine even as I dialed my husband on my cell.

I’ve been playing a bit of Russian Roulette with this car for the past few years. I bought it new 15 years ago. Yeah, 15. When I bought it, I wasn’t even married the first time yet. Hell, I was barely of legal drinking age. For the most part, it has been dependable, but it’s of an age where a fatal incident may come at any time.

But I’m not ready yet. I’m still about 9 months away from cleaning up the rest of the financial mess that my lovely ex left for me and, until that is done, I don’t have the extra cash on hand for a car payment. Plus, I also still have his parting gift of bad credit to deal with. So, needless to say, that glaring red light on my dash this morning felt like the eye of Smaug before I was to be stricken from this earth.

I felt horrible waking up my husband, still recovering from surgery, but I had to get to work to handle the yearbook distribution. Without a grumble, he picked me up, ferried me to school, contacted his mechanic friend and waiting with my car until AAA showed up with a tow truck.

But I wasn’t crying yet.

The yearbooks went okay. Everything else? Not so much.

The graphing calculators, instrumental for the today’s lesson, must have been visited by some vampire version of the Energizer Bunny last night, as all of their batteries decided to drain en masse. And the school’s stock of AAA (not the auto company!) batteries in the last week of school? Let’s just say weak.

I managed to beg, borrow and steal enough batteries to cobble together the lesson. So far, so….okay. But then one of the critical websites disappeared. Not okay. I scrambled to find a work around while my kids (did I mention last week of school) got ever nuttier. The day was capped off by one of my students telling me he hated me and hated my class. If you’ve ever thought being around middle schoolers all day is sunshine and roses, you may need to take a Saturday trip to mall. And then try to make the random teenagers do math.

A coworker was driving me home where I was supposed to go with my husband to pick up the car. On the way, I received a text, “Will you grab my wallet out of the driver’s side door of my car on your way in?”

“Sure,” I responded.

Minutes later, I struggled to locate his wallet with my purse strangling me and my suitcase-sized lunch bag (no joke) bumping into my car behind me.

My car!?!

I’m embarrassed to admit it took me a few moments (a few meaning several here) to notice that my car was in the garage. I blame emotional exhaustion.

I bolted upstairs.

“What, why, how…?”

“I took care of it.”

He then referenced an old conversation. He used to ride motorcycles back when we met. He sold his bike when he decided it was too risky. Ever since, he’s been talking about getting a Corvette in its place at some point in the near future. I expressed some reservations, mainly arising from my own fears. I worried that if a Corvette was in the picture and my car suffered a premature death, that I would be in a bind. He assured me during that conversation that he had my back.

“Do you remember when we talked about the Corvette and I said I had your back with your car?”

“Yes.”

“Today I showed it.”

 

The cost.

The stress of dealing with it.

The uncertainty of work while being carless.

All done.

Taken care of.

See. How could I not cry?

In most ways, I trust him easily now. But when it comes to money and my basic needs (like a car), it’s harder for me to be dependent on someone else.

I depended before, and I was horribly burned.

But that was then, and this is now.

And after today, when he says, “I’ve got your back,” I’ll trust him to catch me if I fall.

Just as the tears are falling now.

 

And, yeah, he IS a keeper!