I wake in a flurry of anxiety.
Sorrowful visions of my beloved Hugh the Honda hoisted in mid-air while mechanics doctor his exhausted heart twist me with wretched guilt.
“You’ve driven the car without any oil. There may be engine damage.”
The news jolts me into an unforgiving reality.
I google “engine damage, cost” and the staggering amount would wipe out my savings. My Austin shoestring savings could potentially evaporate all because I’ve tossed myself onto a hamster wheel of busyness and ignorantly neglected the vital needs of my car.
“I feel awful,” I whimper into the patient ears of the service provider who is now my therapist. Hugh will be gone longer than anticipated. He’ll be in touch.
I sink into gut-clutching despair and stare at the wall, silently reprimanding my thoughtlessness.
I knew Hugh’s rattling navigating signaled a stop for Honda help, but I pressed him forward because my agenda was too cruising full to schedule a time for car drop-off and check-out.
I’ve starved my precious Honda of the juice it needs to survive.
And in all my whip-lash of busyness, I’ve drained my own internal resources.
I place other people’s needs beyond my own, and yes, taking care of my car is a critical need that I pushed to the back of the to-do list until threatened with an exacerbating exhalation that cued that I had pressed my darling Hugh way pass his limit.
And the harshness of the critique crashes into me the next morning when I still haven’t heard about his condition, and I’m reeling with serious questions of my own competence as a functioning, adept human being.
The issue of car maintenance sparks well-oiled thought-narratives on my inability to problem-solve, to efficiently think and realistically respond to the practical, the concrete, and the proper caring for Hugh is parked squarely in an arena of life that requires additional focus, mental assistance and patience for me.
“I N F P,” she recites the letters of my Myers Briggs personality type, counting out the corresponding letters with jeweled fingers and accessing, “well, you’re a feeler, so you’ll make decisions based on heart, but you’re going to need help in thinking. That’s your shadow function. Know any thinkers?”
The men who raised me are thinkers, and both of those men – a cowboy and an academic – are in Kentucky, and throughout my Texas time have inquired about the condition of my car.
“How’s Hugh?” the cowboy routinely asks right after hearing about the weather.
I grimace at how the men who raised me will respond if the damage has eaten my engine.
My Hugh symbolizes my independence, my Hugh belongs all to me, and grants me the freedom of open life roads.
I catastrophize the impact this will have on my life, and if even staying in Austin will be an option after this financial swipe of funds. This sputters fumes around what I am doing with my life, my career, my track going forward.
I’ve been so busy, mapping and strategizing my days without zooming out to the bigger picture, the larger and intricate map that may or may not include Austin, and now that I have a vague idea of what that map might entail, car trouble could fold the whole plan up.
I loathe ponytail bouncing into the stereotype of the blonde not knowing a lick about cars, of even emotionally vomiting, “I feel awful” to the technician on the phone.
My emotions, though valid, will not fix my engine, and right now the heightened emotional reaction steers me toward a straight-up upheaval, a tearful collision.
I breathe, slowing the accelerated thoughts into a manageable speed, and watch as my emotions pump on the brakes, too.
I have my back, a borrowed line from improv takes the passenger seat.
I have my back, no matter what happens, I stand by myself, and I trust that I can reasonably handle whatever the outcome is, because I have in the past, and I will continue to do so in the future.
I take care of myself, so the guilt-ridden rehearsing ends here. I did the best I could do, and in this offering of grace, I create the space to meet and implement the lesson.
This is a big lesson on caring for my car, and caring for myself.
I come first. My car’s needs come first. Ensuring optimal wellness and functioning ease in my life benefits my overall health, mental clarity, emotional peace, and then and only then, I can direct and route the path to others.
So when the phone rings later that morning, I answer knowing that I am capable of thinking, problem-solving, because I refuse to abandon myself, to the judgment of others, to the critique of myself.
There is no engine damage. My baby is fine.
And my honking heart, he looks glistening and mighty fine when we reunite later in the service lot.
“HUGH!!” I bubble with an enthusiasm the technician politely smiles at before jetting back to his desk.
I cradle the steering wheel with hands full of thankful prayers and drive down a weekend road already bustling with brunching and errand-hopping Austinites. The windows are rolled down, the traffic merges into the playing of an old CD made when I first fell in love, but the music doesn’t remind me of him, it reminds me of a loving, life-eager me. And my younger self would be proud of the woman I am, exhausted and invigorated, terrified and still bravely figuring out, making mistakes, and redirecting as necessary.
The oil check is a life check. And I am grateful for the wake-up call.
The remembering to value my time and not waste it racing down roads that tire my energy to people-please, that I have permission to stop when I am exhausted and confused and get clear and fiercely focused on my life-map, and then, claim that I am clever and resourceful and smart at handling the concrete challenges of this big city, independent life.
I wear sunglasses as I drive into the heartbeat of Austin, and feel wind, sun, and a deepening of breath. I’m on my side. Let’s see where the road goes.