Beater Love, Part I

So, I'm talking to my old man about a new car. He's giving me the skinny on how to keep the dealers on their toes. "Cash on the barrel," he says to me. "Then you just walk away."

I'm hemming and hawing about emptying my entire savings account in order to acquire something reliable vs. dropping a few thousand on unpredictable CPR on the Saturn. Then he says to me, "You gotta wonder if you're sending the wrong message about your worth."

That one stopped me cold. Worth? As in, my worth as a human? My net worth? Maybe he's talking about my value as potential mate or a job candidate. This is an intriguing question. If I'm wheezing and grunting around town in a beater, am I telling the world this chick has got things together?

It's not as if the old man's question had never crossed my mind. Pull into any Shell station or Safeway in Fairfax County, and you'll see very few scarred up 2000 Saturns. Even the kids zipping out of the public high school parking lot are driving nicer cars than I am. Hell, they're driving nicer cars than my parents are. So, yeah, if anyone is taking account of such things -- and someone must be, because even my dad voiced the question -- it's entirely possible that the run-down mess I drive is seen as a proxy for the run-down mess of its driver.

The thought of an affordable new-ish car, of shedding the mileage and rusted out clutch, appeals. But the truth is, I am not swimming in liquid cash.  If I were to drop the money on a car, I would not be squirreling it away into Bug's college fund, my own 401K, or my get-outta-dodge account. At the brink of any decision, an open field of affirmatives awaits. Say a single Yes, and at that very moment, you say a dozen other Nos.

Underneath the financial echoes of the immediate decision is a quieter strain. It has to do with honoring and maintaining the choices already made. Our world is full of disposable things. Razors and soda bottles give way to electronics and automobiles. How much of this before one fails to see the resilient potential even in other people? Just because the old hunk of metal is limping along, it is not a piece of trash. It is a machine in need of attention and repair. After that, it requires careful handling, ongoing maintenance, and adaptation. Isn't this true of all the things we invite into our lives?

My Saturn's scars should make clear to those phantom judges sharing the road with me that I don't have a ton of cash to spend on frivolous things. The cluttered booster seat in the back might even help explain my priorities.

The waffling goes on for a few tortured weeks, but I finally come down on the only side I ever could have. As I bypass the showroom and pull around to the service bay, I tell my old man that the message about my worth is exactly right. If  the car I drive communicates that my bank account is not a frat party, then I ain't stuttering.

By fixing the clutch, replacing the valves, oiling her up and getting her back on the road, maybe I'm attempting to walk the talk. Live lightly, make things last, care well for the long haul. I aim to hang on to this one as long as she is willing to ferry me through this congested tangle of urban streets. A car is an incomplete messenger. It can only offer a fractured glimpse into a person's value. It can, however, shed light on what a person chooses to value.

At the Wheel

"Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?"

"That depends a good deal on where you want to go," said the Cat.

"I don't much care where –  " said Alice.

"Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat.

" –  so long as I get somewhere," Alice added as an explanation.

"Oh, you're sure to do that," said the Cat, "if you only walk long enough."

- Lewis Carroll

A person should not make any major decisions in the first year of a separation. This is a time when people have more traffic accidents, jump into ill-fated relationships, drink too much, and make stupid financial decisions. Impulse is problematic when focus is impossible.

World War II birthed the saying, “Keep Calm and Carry On.” This is a valuable mantra for someone in the midst of divorce. Go to work. Care for the kiddo. Tend to the small rituals. Eyes on the road, take it slow. Big changes are galloping ahead on their own momentum. They do not need to be crashing into self-imposed obstacles.

This is all fine and dandy until a major junction appears without warning in the middle of the road. The illusion of a straight line disappears at a 5-way intersection with no working traffic lights.

Now, you may not think of a car repair as a significant undertaking. Up until last year, I would not have either. A headache, sure. But manageable. When the car needs a fix, I call around for estimates and either schedule the maintenance or begin shopping for a new ride. This happens tens of thousands of times every day to people just like me.

But I am not people just like me anymore.

My car is an 11-year-old Saturn. I bought it when I lived here with my folks back in grad school. My father went with me to the dealership to make sure I would not get hoodwinked. I drove out that day, beaming from behind the wheel of my first new car. The no-frills Saturn turned out to be a generous little gem. Basic maintenance and one major brake job have been all she’s asked of me.

Now the clutch is a few shifts away from non-existent and an ominous ticking in the engine is demanding attention. The Saturn company kicked the bucket when the economy tanked a few years back. While repairs are still possible, my little car’s demise is inevitable. The decision to let her go will have to come sooner or later. The question right now appears simple. Do I fix her up or do I dip into the savings to replace her? If I choose the latter, I open the door to a gazillion more questions about purchasing a car. Not so simple after all.

Here I am, having to make this decision alone.

It’s not like I’m forced to choose which child to pull into the lifeboat, I know. It’s just a car. And after all, while I was home with Bug all those years we moved around the country, I was in charge of the maintenance of our small fleet of vehicles. Tee can build a shed but he doesn’t know diddly about engines. I am certainly capable of figuring this out, and I should not lament the lack of a man in my life to help me sort through it.

What I lack is someone to share the burden of the decision.

I have a father, colleagues at work, male friends. Testosterone abounds in my life. Several fellows have already offered their perspective. I am not really alone in the making the decision. I am, however, alone in living with it. Whatever I choose, the consequences of it fall on Bug and me. The responsibility for it is mine. I could repair the Saturn three days before the CV joint goes. I could drive a lemon off the new car lot.  I could get lucky with another great find. I could keep procrastinating and end up stranded on the side of the road without a husband to call for a rescue. I cannot blame Tee, whine to him about it, stamp my foot or even just ask for his perspective.

Somehow, I am supposed to do this on my own.

When I signed the papers for that new car back in 2000, I felt like a grownup for the first time in my life. Here I am, eleven years later, right at the brink of an identical decision. This time, I feel like a child for the first time in years.

Like everything else before me, I just need to move through this, taking the curves with care. I may feel far too clueless and confused to make such a major decision right now. Yet somehow, I will make it. I will also learn to live with it.

Keep calm, Lady. And carry on.