Of Tires and Time-Outs.

There are certain things at which I am exceedingly good. Things like loading paper into tray 2, and holding the door for old ladies; taking my vitamins and promptly RSVPing. Complaining about the slowness of this here computer just enough times and to just enough people that, magic, they delivered a new one this morning (and it’s SO FAST! These windows are just FLYING open! Technically should make me more productive. Also makes time for blogging. Win).

At other things, however, I am not-so-exceedingly good. Tires would definitely go on that list. I don’t stop to think about my tires all that often; I just trust that they’ll be there, in good shape, carrying me around and spinning at the outrageous speeds I command of them (dear magda, you are not an autobahn racer. Please keep this in mind. Yes, I am sporty, and yes, I am cute. But that’s no excuse. Love, your car).

I’m good at the check engine light, and the CD player; anything that lights up and flashes wins my attention. But oh, how easy it is for me to ignore larger problems. Like, say, the car hydroplaning. It’s been doing it a lot; “grooves in the road,” I’d say. “Oil in the water, it hasn’t rained in so long.” Feeling the bumps in the road more than I used to? Eh, Virginia roads are full of potholes. Even that odd creaking sound when I hit the brakes wasn’t really alarming me.

It wasn’t till I was driving in an outright downpour on Sunday and really, truly, felt I was losing control that I took it in. “It was like I was driving on ice,” I told them, and it was true: by the time I arrived, my hands around my umbrella were white at the knuckles from gripping the steering wheel so hard. That’s really not normal.

“Routine maintenance?” the dealership man asked me this morning when I dropped the darling off. “Yeah, it’s at 20,000 miles,” I said. (!!). “Also I’d like you to check the tires, I think there might be something wrong with them.”

Ha. Ahaha.

The tires are totally shot, all of them. “It’s really amazing you got here,” the guy said after a quick look. “Hit one bump the wrong way, it could be all over. You’re totally down to the cords.” I don’t really know what that means, but it sounds serious. Guy also sounded bemused, though; “crazy girl in her crazy nice car, can’t take care of it at all” were, I fear, his underlying thoughts. Huh.

Days like this I feel like my car is a metaphor for my life. It’s nicer than I deserve, and I suck at managing it in the ways that matter. I love it, but I abuse it. I never mean to. It just kind of happens; I wear out but I keep charging on. At least emotionally, I wait till I’m about to literally blow out on the highway before I reach out for help, or look for an exit; I hope that problems will just fix themselves on their own. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don’t, though; sometimes you end up assaulting the platinum visa just in the nick of time, just miles before that’s you out there, stranded and broken in the pouring rain on 495. This is not a good pattern.

My computer may be faster now, but I need to slow down. I need to stop and check in on things before there’s a problem.  Routine maintenance, et cetera, plus a bit more precaution. I must have written these words out five billion times, but I find they’re significantly harder to implement that you’d think.  

Here is what I know: Wine won’t fix everything, getting busier won’t stop my worrying, and writing it down isn’t always a fix. I need to remember to take time for me.