Is It Possible To Die of Embarrassment?

Evidently not, because I’m still here

I’m blaming my latest funk on the hormone blockers I started taking a few weeks ago. While it doesn’t remove all the estrogen, it blocks up to 70% of it. And as any pre or post-menopausal woman can testify to, lack of estrogen causes more than just hot flashes. Or flushes as my friends across the pond would call them.

Not only does it create physical symptoms, depression and less-then-clear thinking are another.

My gloomy article the other day no doubt gave you a glimpse into my ruminating mind. Not a pretty sight.

Now that we have that prelude out of the way…

I bought a used minivan and the first morning after purchase, it died.

It let out a pathetic tar-rar-rar-rar followed by an ear splitting silence.

Then I tried to turn the key. No cigar. It was locked up.

I tried all the tricks. Wiggle the key, wiggle the wheel, sweet talk it (which turned to cursing at it), look for any buttons to push on fob and so on.

Next, I did what mature, capable women do when faced with adversity.

I cried.

My sister referred me to a mobile mechanic, so I called him. No worries, he told me. Sounds like the battery, he said. The van seller had disclosed that to me so I wasn’t surprised. I also did not realize that an antitheft feature of the van is that the wheel locks if the battery is dead.

My angel of mercy/master mechanic extraordinaire arrived within an hour.

A new battery later, the engine purred to life. He assured me the van was a good purchase. It’s a Honda, they go for ever, etc, etc.

I had already been questioning my sanity purchasing this thing. I know when you purchase an older used vehicle, there WILL be issues. And this baby has a restored salvage title, like I needed confirmation that this has been in an accident. Probably some fender benders as well.

This was my first time purchasing a vehicle without having my handy former husband checking it out so I was very nervous.

Tires were new. And for the year, the miles are low. It’s a Honda, you know.

The van sort of reminds me of me. We’re both getting up there in miles. We are both battered and scarred on the outside but the engine’s still working.

It is an Odyssey. I am on an Odyssey.

Back back to the drama.

I missed Zumba that day but hey, tomorrow’s another day to shake what my mama gave me, right?

The next morning, I hopped into the van and like a good little kitty, it purred to life again. Good, kitty, good kitty.

Off to Zumba.

Class is finished and I am iping the sweat off my brow as I head to the van.

I hop into the torn seat, stick the key in the ignition and…

NOTHING.

NOT A DAMN THING.

Not a click, a turn, a jiggle, NADA.

I take a deep breath. Remove the key. Turn it over and try again.

Nopity, nope, nope.

Breathe, Theresa, breathe.

The victim outrage script plays TRIPLE FORTE in my brain.

“Well, ain’t this great, Theresa? You bought a piece of shit van and now look at you. You need to sell this YESTERDAY. What WERE you thinking?”

I draw a deep breath and try to remember self-soothing techniques so I don’t completely lose my mind.

Rational me chimes in, “This is just an issue that can be addressed. No worries. No judgement. Shit happens.”

Victim me retorts, “Have you not taken note of the past few years?

SILENCE! I tell my warring parts. Call Jason, the mobile master mechanic I now regard as my new best friend.

Biting back the tears, I tell him I’m stranded.

“I’ll be there in 20 minutes,” he says.

I allow the tears to flow while I wait. I have a brilliant knack for catastrophizing, so I also spent the time battling back intrusive thoughts foretelling my ultimate demise because of the shitty van decision I made.

If breast cancer didn’t get me, most certainly this damn thing will blow up while I’m driving it and take me out. At least the brakes didn’t squeak in this thing, though. (The old BMW I had would announce my arrival blocks away with the squeaky brakes. I did not want to pursue getting repairs with a Beemer. ($$$$))

Jason AKA my new best friend, arrives. I mopped up my face, but damnit, the tears started flowing again.

I hand him the key.

He slides behind the wheel. Pops key in. Turns key.

There. Is. No. resistance.

The little kitten purrs to life.

WTAF?! From tears to stunned silence, I am gobsmacked.

He looks at me. I look back.

Is this one of those mysterious things where the engine noise stops when the mechanic takes it for a drive?

Or is Jason the Kathryn Kuhlman of the automotive world and his magic touch sovereignly healed my ailing van?

Is that a glowing aura I see behind his head?

My speechless state continued for another moment or two.

Then I look at the key. The horror of the spectacle dawns on me.

Dear Jesus, take me home. Scotty, beam me up. Get me the hell out of here.

I don’t care by what means, I’m not going to be fussy.

I was using the key to the Beemer. They are both the same shape and size.

Now I’m laughing and crying and horrified.

The mechanic pats my hand.

“It’s okay,” he says. He has now shape shifted into a soothing psychologist.

He recounts his own “Duh-ism” story which I won’t tell because it is his story to share. But let’s just say it really comforted me.

We laughed.

Then he offered to do a test drive, which we did.

He repeated his earlier observation on the van. It’s a good van! It runs well.

And remember, he tells me, there is nothing, I mean NOTHING on this van I can’t fix.

I felt like one of those corny religious cartoons where Jesus floats up into the sky offering pithy encouragement while the stunned and slack-jawed disciples look up and wave bye-bye.

Like the Arnold the Terminator, Jesus’ voice decrescendos as he disappears in the clouds. I’ll be back…

Jason interrupts my reverie. It is he who is promising a return.

“So, just call me for an appointment for those other minor issues.”

Jason and his aura departed.

My heart whispers; you have seen the calloused hand of god.

And I drove home without further incidence.

Thanks so much for reading. You can find me around the internet at www.theresawinn.com, on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram. If you’d like to support my writing in a small way, feel free to contribute to my wishlist.