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.

. . . I Wanna Bang on My Drum All Day

At camp, people pay for the chance to hang from a rope and climb a wall. We watch and think, "How lucky that guy is!" Today, the dude dangling at the 5th floor window of the building behind mine elicits a different response. "How lucky I am not to be that guy!"

What differentiates work from play? The window washer makes me think geography and a paycheck are the main culprits. It's a shame to know nothing can bleed the thrill from an activity faster than getting paid for it (or, to be fair, having to get paid for it).

Over the past few months, anxiety about an uncertain future has been weighing on me. How does a single mother who spent the better part of five years as a stay-at-home camp mama position herself to support her child? I mean, how does she do it anywhere, let alone in the competitive, crowded job market of the DMV?

An increased salary means creating bigger job than the one I have. Because of this, I have begun to chart a course of action. No one out there is going to care that I have good reasons for a weak resume. It’s time to run that puppy through boot camp and build some solid muscle. This requires research, contingency plans, truckloads of advice. It demands thinking and planning and reflection. All of this, I have taken on with the fervor of the truly desperate.

A solid plan exacts its price. I had not noticed that by zeroing in on a goal, I was also wearing myself thin. Gentle dreams, finally restored after nine months of insomnia last year, were beginning to rattle with tsunamis and predators. My voice was growing louder. Keys were lost, appointments dropped, and I caught myself rolling my eyes in the vicinity of people who deserve better.

This is no recipe for professional success. In my quest to prepare myself for a future career, I was overlooking the career solidly in my grasp.

Right here in my hands is a job many would love to land: a supportive, student-oriented, opportunity-rich position in a well-run department with a boss who should be training the universe in superior boss-dom. This job here is paying the bills and paving the way. Because of this work, I am able to cobble together a vision of that future with its pots of gold, its milk and honey. I don’t get there by blasting past this. I get there by doing this.

Doing this one thing.

Like any job, mine has its moments of drudgery. However, I chose this position because it feeds me, in every sense of the word. It is only when I begin to count the dollar value of the minutes that I begin to curl my lip at the work. When I feel far from Bug, wishing I could meet him for lunch or commute home with him, I despair about my situation. What dark magic turns the gratitude into grumpiness? 

Geography and a paycheck.

The work is only toil when looking forever beyond it. Quieting the comparisons, thoughts, and research allows for taking pleasure in the activities that fill a day. It is possible to set the planning into a crate for unpacking when the time is right. This frees me up to go into the office each morning with my eyes and mind on what is before me. The reflective journal awaits me at my desk, and I write through projects and improvements for the day. Next comes a priority list, and, finally, leaping into the first item with a can-do attitude and a warm smile. 

As my co-workers arrive, they can hear sunny welcomes from my office and inquiries that bring out their best hopes for the day. Students and colleagues come with their requests. I seek to serve as a resource and to make their experience of the university (through me) a positive one.

Nothing else needs my attention. Shannon the Struggling Mother has left the building. She has been replaced by Shannon the Assistant Director for PhD Student Services (or, as I like to think of her, Shannon the Kick-Ass, Smokin’ Hot PhD Lady).

The spirit I embody at work contributes as much – perhaps more –  to my future prospects as any dozen plans for career advancement. Here, success is within reach. It is play. It is the wide arc of a rope swinging across the sky.  It is a single, elegant stroke of the brush.

My job is joy. With full attention, I will breathe delight into this one thing.

Tax Season

My new friend Smee has directed me to do one gentle thing for myself every day for two weeks. This is an interesting assignment. Self-care I can do, but it usually takes the form of a hard run up five flights of stairs. Gentle? What is that? Play, a light touch, bouyacy? Last night, I belted out a lengthy repertoir of show-tunes in bed with the Bug. We were in bliss. Close enough.

Tonight, I am alone. Tee has taken Bug to a hockey game. I've already walked the dog, eaten the dinner, done the laundry, and packed the gym bag for tomorrow. What is left but Smee's homework? Ah, well. Dangerous question.

Bleepin' taxes.

I take a detour from my friend's assignment. Time to download the TurboTax CD. I begin, still folding clothes and feeling pretty dang good about how much time remains in this big, quiet night. Then the CD freezes. I re-boot, fiddle with settings. The computer grumbles through my nudges before finally staging a strike. The CPU withstands a round of verbal abuse but still refuses to budge. Pressure squeezes my temples, chest, jaw.

Once upon a time, a vibrant and independent girl leapt at her taxes at the start of every year. It sounds a little crazy, I know. But the math was a puzzle, and comparing deductions a compelling game. I liked the tables, finding my way. I did the taxes every year. Even for Tee. Even when we were dating. When we morphed into a unit with a single last name, the taxes were still a form of play.

Then we began moving. Then moving some more. Only three out of the past eight years have we lived in a single state during a tax year. Relocation expenses, car registrations, investment laws changing across time zones. Because Tee out earning the cash and I was home with the babe, I managed the increasingly burdensome finances. Year after year. State after state. During every first quarter, I diligently compiled documents and forced a smile, tight as it had become.

Now Tee is at the hockey game with our son. Here I sit in front of my internet download of TurboTax (couldn't ever get the dang CD to work). Every piece of data I enter into the system reminds me of the grim reality of our circumstances. Copious amounts of money disappeared selling off our already meager investments before and during the move. More cash drained away as we divided up our anemic bank accounts and our households. This is the first move in which we did not receive any reimbursments for our relocation expenses, so this girl has yet to summon the nerve to glance at those receipts.

My buddy Ben Franklin was right about death and taxes. At this moment, the former is looking more appealing. But what's the use of letting irritation eat me up? Every financial advisor counsels tough love. You've got to look hard and straight at what you spend, what you owe, and where you can go from here. My skin may have been thick before, but this new life seems is wrapping me in rhinocerous hide. Tackling the taxes may require copious amounts of cursing under my breath, but this gal has it in her to do whatever needs doing.

Still, I can't help but wonder what comes after this. No windfalls await me. The resources for easing our way -- my son's and mine -- seem impossibly out of reach. Managing the money is no longer a game. The stakes are far too high. Perhaps this is the biggest heartbreak of all.

But then I think of Smee.She and her husband had their own plan this weekend. As they plowed through their annual finances, they decided to stop at regular intervals during the torture to make a little whoopie. "Tax and Shag Sunday." That is the way to approach these things if one happens to have a mate in the vicinity who is primed for action.

As for me? I must stop entirely for the moment and get my bearings. Is it possible to approach this task with the deftness my friend suggests? I may not be playing with Monopoly money, but taking account of finances may simply be another way of gazing in dumb wonder at the life unfolding in my hands. I can attempt to give it shape, sure. But my touch must be delicate, because every gesture has the power to shape me in return.

For now, I am closing downTurboTax. I have to take a walk under the misted moon, smooth almond oil into my skin, and take a dozen deep breaths. When I am kind to myself, I rest. And when I rest, my mind has a way of revealing paths I could not conceive with all my thinking and agitated work. Sometimes, in my calmest moments, I even forget to worry about the future. As I let the pressure ease, the thought occurs to me that the resources my son and I need might already be right here, in my grasp, in this moment. It's a strange and delicious possibility.

Being gentle is a kind of currency whose worth does not appear in the normal calculations. I will make my own small deposit in this secret account and trust in the magic of compounding interest.