I guess you could say I’m indecisive. I have no problem making snap decisions about things I feel strongly about. No, those I can handle. It’s the small, seemingly inconsequential choices which trip me up.
Food related decisions are often the hardest. Heck, I could ponder over a menu for hours – which is why, once I know I like something at a particular restaurant, I tend to stick with it. But sometimes, even deciding where to go out to eat can be painful.
And it’s best if I do my grocery shopping unaccompanied. That way I can spend as much time agonizing over my peanut butter options all by my lonesome.
It’s not just foodstuffs that have me flummoxed on the shopping front. One day I dithered for longer than I care to remember in the body wash aisle, torn between the gentle scent of the “Touch of Sparkle” and the promised intense moisturizing capabilities of the ultra-rich shea butter with moisture beads.
Frankly, it was so traumatizing I considered going back to just plain soap.
Unfortunately, that too came in a number of varieties.
Even getting dressed in the morning can be a challenge. I’m fine if I pick out my clothes the night before, but if I leave that decision to my still sleep-fogged mind ... Let’s just say, I’m not at my best before my first dose of daily caffeine. The best part of waking up is NOT, in my opinion, deciding what to wear.
All that said, I’d like to stress that I’m not a complete basket case. Apart from these minor conundrums (which, admittedly, I seem to have an innate ability to blow out of proportion), I am able to handle most situations more decisively. Even those decisions which must be made on the fly. In fact, it is those types of decisions – when time is of the essence and the matter is more pressing than what I’m going to put in my belly – which are easier for me to make.
But sometimes, it is not the decision itself, but the action required after the choice has been made which proves more daunting.
I’m in the middle of one of those very situations right now.
It revolves around my car, the aging Ford Explorer which has been my primary means of transport for close to a decade.
Even though I’ve never come up with a cutesy name for her – and yes, she is most decidedly feminine despite her brawny 5.0 liter V-8 – my Explorer and I have been through a lot together. We’ve pulled off many a move, enjoyed the rays in the sunny Florida Keys, had our adventures in the Colorado Rockies, partied it up in the French Quarter and on the Las Vegas Strip, and eaten up thousands of miles of road along the way.
We’ve faced everything Mother Nature’s thrown in our way, from gale force winds, blinding snow, glare ice, freezing rain and pea-soup thick fog to torrential downpours, tropical storms and, yes, even a hurricane evacuation.
But after 13 years on the road, my faithful Explorer is starting to show every one of her 136,000 miles. And not in a good way.
It started, I think, with a spot of rust above one wheel well. Then the paint started to lose its grip, leaving an unsightly bald patch on the hood. The radio knob has taken to popping off at the most inopportune moments – usually while I’m driving down the road and something truly obnoxious is blaring. The pleather on the center console, grown brittle with age, has cracked, allowing a rather unattractive tuft of padding to show through.
And don’t get me started on the capricious behavior of the lock on the driver’s side door. At random intervals it will refuse to open, thus forcing me to unlock the car via the passenger door and climb over to release the latch.
Then there is the exhaust. Rather than the quiet rumble I used to enjoy, my faithful friend is now up to a throaty roar. Kind of like a freight train. Frankly, it’s a bit embarrassing. But on the upside, I don’t have to worry about any wildlife inadvertently crossing my path. They can hear me coming a mile a way. (That, by the way, is a conservative estimate.)
As old problems get worse, and new issues arise with increased frequency, I know it’s time to retire the old girl. But it just feels too much like betraying an old friend. So, I’ve been dragging my feet these last few months, unwilling to start car shopping in earnest and preferring instead to bury my head further into the sand. (I find it helps block out all that excessive noise.)
But now, unfortunately, I have no choice. My exhaust problems have started to mess with my engine performance. The trip to and from work is getting hairier by the day.
Again, there is an upside to this. Since my daily commute is more like a daily prayer session now, I’ve never been so in touch with my faith. I’m sure my aunt, Sister Kathleen, would be very proud.
Last week, after we barely limped into Tyner Ridge Garage for our scheduled appointment, I knew her days were numbered even before I saw my faithful mechanic shake his head sadly.
Could I eke a few thousand more miles out of her? Sure, he told me, but I’d probably need to take out a mortgage. And what would be the wisdom of that? Lets face it, if I’ve got to invest a small fortune, it should be on a new vehicle. Or at least, new to me.
She’s been a trooper, but it’s time to finally put her to rest.
I guess that means, let the car shopping begin.
Which, let’s face it, will probably be even harder than buying body wash.

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