In a stunning move that can only be explained as an unlanced
brain abscess or a monumental intelligence cavity, I bought a car. I have never before done something like
this all by myself.
It was deeply unnerving. I became disoriented.
I seemed to have no recognizable center of gravity…or cognitive brain
function, for that matter. I went
around bug-eyed and anxious, with apprehension tantamount to colon-blow.
Ordinarily I live my life in tranquil tedium and devoted
sobriety, peacefully belching during digestion, serenely beyond the reach of
deep thought or great ideas. But
lately I began experiencing a nagging little viscous slime trail meandering
through my mind that perhaps, just maybe, it was time to replace my 11-year-old
automobile.
Oh, perish the thought! La La La…I’m not LISTENING! I love that car.
And the vision of going through the whole car-buying process left my
little gray cells bruised and limping.
How daunting an undertaking. Personally, I’d rather do 8 seconds on a
bull named “Asteroid!”
However, I soldiered on. My first task was to decide what kind of car I wanted. I toyed with the idea of a Subaru. They’re the ones with the beguiling ads
that claim love is what makes a Subaru a Subaru. (I think they’re idealizing the product they
represent.) But I was befuddled by
the thought that selecting a car based solely on the concept of love might
reveal me to be a woman with a fiesta of mental maladies which would invite
ridicule. No, I had to assume some
measure of greater competence on my part.
So, I thought about a Jaguar. How cool would that be? Tremendous horse power and a sleek design, engineered for
stilletoes and power cosmetics.
“Automobilus horribilis” – for “the mad grandma of Holladay.” A cougar in a Jaguar! That’s me. The concept had a certain narcissistic
appeal.
Ah, but then I thought better of it. My grandkids have already considered me
a member emeritus of the chronically confused, charmingly, endearingly
imbecilic.
So, after solemn consideration, and not wishing to heap any
intentional depraved humiliation upon their curly little heads, I myopically
opted for a new version of the vehicle I’ve driven for over a decade.
In order to prepare for what I can only compare to a day in
the Roman coliseum, I decided to talk to friends who had just purchased
cars. But not just any
friends. They had to be recent
widows, ladies whose circumstances most resembled mine. And they were most encouraging, like
cheerleaders at a geriatric convention.
Then I broadened my circle of counselors to include people
outside my realm of circumstance to better establish a more rounded perspective. So I sought out friends who were
happily married, friends who were having marital difficulties, those who had
just quarreled, and a few on the brink of divorce.
I got so caught up in my research, I resorted to
cold-calling perfect strangers, the moronically bizarre, and men from the
prison work release program. (I
have no capacity for embarrassment.)
And then, in an act of utter incongruity under the
circumstances, I went in for ear surgery.
I was prompted in part by the fact I couldn’t hear if the digits being
quoted were the salesman’s cell phone number, or the price of the car. Talk about aggravated sticker shock! Happily,
the anesthesia released my feeble mind from the great burden of actually making
a decision.
As soon as cognitive function resumed, and I stopped
drooling on my pillow, I asked Brodi what she thought I ought to do. To buy or
not to buy…that is the question. Her reply was cryptic and succinct: “Mom, just buy the DANG car!” (Those acquainted with Brodi know
“dang” is just an approximation of her actual word choice.)
It all seemed so simple. I girded up my loins (with my best gird) and I did just
that. All by myself, I. BOUGHT. A.
CAR.
It is white and compliments my naturally platinum hair…a
definite selling point. And it has
every technological miracle. It
beeps a warning for intruders in my blind spot, impending collisions with
hormonal teenagers and distracted geriatric drivers, and
sends an alert if I get a cavity or need a pedicure.
It has blue tooth, red flags, and pink flares to indicate
the findings of my latest mental competency hearing. It even has a tiny robotic extension with a single flange to
simulate obscene gestures, so at no time do my hands need to leave the
wheel.
So far, I can start it, stop it, and drive it. I’ll learn the other stuff later.
I was especially happy that in the Great Ledger of recorded
decisions, I SCORED! And somehow I
had not disturbed the larger order of the universe.
I did it! And I
did it alone…uh, with a little help from my friends…my many, many friends.
Gee, I have so many blind spots.
In reality, it took a village…a very big village. It is the height of hubrus to believe
we can do this life alone.
We all light each other’s lamps. It’s how the village is
illuminated.
