My sweet, innocent little car that hadn’t lost its virginity yet got herself molested by a big bad-ass four wheeler. We were waiting in a take-out line at Culver’s for a North Atlantic Cod sandwich and a concrete mixer when the truck in front of us rolled back and my baby got smacked with a trailer hitch dead center in the front. I hopped out of my seat to look for damage and the woman driving the four wheeler got out to ask, “Are you alright?” I was, but I appreciated the fact that she thought about a human being before property damage. Me, I was just the opposite. I was busy searching my car for boo-boos. I didn’t find any until I got home and wiped some of the winter road crud off the car. There is was, a nicely formed square punched about an eighth of an inch deep into the nose of my Chevy Trax.
I spent the next two hours pouting about my first world problem while trying to remember that the nice lady did something I could have easily done myself back in my bad-ass truck driving days. Sitting up high in a truck it’s easy not see a car sitting low behind you and it's easy not to put your car in park when you're waiting in line. And even if we had exchanged insurance information the damage wouldn’t have exceeded my deductible. Well, maybe it would have. It doesn’t take much to spend $500 on body work these days. Still, I’m not enough of a perfectionist to spend that much out-of-pocket to make my little car whole again. That didn’t stop me from pouting about the square tattoo on my bumper reducing its resale value even though I kept reminding myself I’ll probably keep this car until someone pries my driver’s license out of my wallet and hides my keys. Then resale value will be the least of my problems. At least I had a good reason to pout. Before the accident happened I was already having a regular pout-fest.
Why was I pouting? I don’t know. I was having a doofus week, feeling sorry for myself, feeling fat, feeling like a failure, feeling all alone even though the morning of the accident I spent an hour talking on the phone to the son-I-wish-I-had. If someone wrote ‘doofus’ on my forehead with a magic marker I wouldn’t have been surprised. This week, even the dog looked fat and I only finished 7/8 of my closet cleaning project---I still have to vacuum the floor. And I can’t find a rug I want for my bathroom online. Damn first world problems! What I need is to spend a week living on a pile of raw garbage in Bangladesh. I also need to sleep one night without getting woke by a dream of my husband. Apparently, my sleeping self has been trying to contact him but he’s always just out of reach and I’ll wake up feeling frustrated that I couldn’t hogtie him to the bed so he’ll be there after I’m fully awake. At least long enough to have a conversation. He’d have some animated opinions about our current political landscape. We used to love the drama and craziness of election cycles and would talk them to death.
Before I went to Culver’s where my car lost her new car virginity---I’m still sad about that---I was at JoAnn’s Fabrics where I bought a tube of paint and some fabric for my bedroom. With the Naples yellow paint I no longer have any excuses not to start painting again. (It’s been almost 30 years!) I’ve been studying how-to books, I’ve identified and located everything I need. I even know what I want to paint first and have done a few rudimentary drawings, but I still have to screw up my courage to mix that first palette of paint. Color theory was never my strong suit. I won’t let myself start, though, until I finish the closet project which probably explains why I haven’t gotten the vacuum out of its cave. Doofus, yup, that’s me. Who cares if I vacuum the closet? No one goes in there but me and the dusty bunnies. That territory is even off limits to my cleaning woman and maybe that should change next time she’s here. Ohmygod, could my first world problems get any shallower?
The fabric I bought for my bedroom is to go in five picture frames that line up across the wall in place of a head board for my bed. I’m toning down the colors in there, getting rid of my red bed sheets, the red fabric in the frames and the red rug in the adjoining bathroom. I’m going subtle and Zen. I’ve hauled two yards of fabric home from Joan Ann’s and neither one does what I want it to do. Honestly. I should be ashamed to admit to the frivolous stuff that occupies my brain.
“Flow with whatever may happen, and let your mind be free: Stay centered by accepting whatever you are doing. This is the ultimate.” Ya, sure, that’s easy to say if you’re an ancient Chinese philosopher making a living writing wise and influential ditties but try letting your mind be free and staying centered when you’ve got a closet full of dust bunnies taunting your allergies. And try letting your mind be free and staying centered when your poor car is still sobbing over losing her virginity and the dog is yell, "Hey, I'm not fat! How could you say that?"
“Chill out. Remember what I’ve been saying for centuries, ‘Those who realize their folly are not true fools.’”
Thank you Master. I keep forgetting. ©