My Trunk is Full of Anxiety

Monday morning I pulled into the preschool parking lot and heard a loud crrrrrunnnchchchchch as I ran over a large piece of plastic that had fallen off the underside of my van. This had been happening for weeks.

Fortunately, my van never fully dropped a piece while I was driving, though sometimes I would drag pieces for a mile or two, but they always had the decency to fully drop when the car stopped. I never knew what to do with these sometimes very large pieces of my car so I tossed them into the trunk on top of all the bags that needed to go to D.I.

I pretty much always have D.I. bags in my trunk. It just so happens that I find the process of donating things to D.I. too stressful to actually go through with. The very thought of it makes my stomach churn. I never know if I am supposed to help them take stuff out of the trunk or not. When I don’t help them, I’m pretty sure they’re thinking “This woman is lazy!” and when I do help I’m pretty sure they’re thinking, “Seriously lady? You’re not qualified to work here -- pick up those random car parts and get back in your van!” So instead I drive around with my trunk full of D.I. bags and van parts, it's just easier that way.

So when I came to a stop in the preschool parking lot, I hopped out, I picked up that large dirty piece of plastic and nonchalantly added it to the growing pile of dirty car parts and D.I. bags in the trunk. But who really cares? It's not like I had a scheduled Costco trip with a judgy-judgy friend or anything. I shut the trunk, inspected the van, and noticed the front bumper on the driver’s side had come loose.

Right now you’re probably thinking, “With so many loose car parts, why didn’t you just take your van to a mechanic?” To which I reply, “I just told you I find taking bags to D.I. stressful and you’re wondering why I don’t take my van to a mechanic?”

By Tuesday I could tell my van was getting worse. It felt like the bumper was dragging against the tire and I could feel it pull as I would turn. So naturally I tried to take the straightest routes possible and every time I parked I’d stick my hand underneath and try to push “stuff” up. It never really helped but I at least I was doing something.

My Wednesday schedule was packed -- the kiddo had preschool, I had a lunch date, the girl had 6th grade graduation, the boy had violin lessons, then the girl had a track meet. It was all perfectly orchestrated with no time to spare, and if I followed the schedule it would work out perfectly. As I dropped the kiddo off and went to lunch I noticed it was getting harder to steer, but I just kept shoving that bumper back up at each stop and pressed forward. As I pulled into the elementary school parking lot to pick up the little man and attend the girl’s 6th grade graduation, the van jolted as if I’d run over a curb, but I hadn’t. I was worried. I felt sick all through graduation, but I knew if I could just get the boy from yet another school and get home, I could use massive amounts of duct tape to hold my bumper up and continue on with my perfectly orchestrated day.

I got the little man and the girl in the van and as I pulled out of the parking lot it became very apparent that I was going nowhere. I needed duct tape NOW. I pulled over, swore a few times, collected myself and called a neighbor. As soon as my neighbor said “hello” the floodgates opened. I hardly got a word out before my tears turned to sobs, but eventually I was able to get a little bit of a grip and the sobs tapered off to mere sniffles. Not surprisingly, the neighbor thought someone had died. But I convinced her that I really just needed duct tape--lots of it. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any but she scoured the neighborhood and brought me a large roll of silver duct tape.

So in nice pants, heels, and pearls (it was 6th grade graduation after all) I crawled under the van. I started slapping pieces of duct tape anywhere they would stick. Literally...anywhere they would stick. Anything that was hanging, and some things that were just there, got taped up. I think it would be reasonable to say I used half a roll of tape on the underside of the van that day. I emerged covered in dirt, sweat, and grime but feeling confident I would be able to resume my day. Unfortunately, as soon as I pulled out I could tell I had fixed nothing. I said a few more choice words and pulled over on the other side of the road.

Frustrated and confused, I got out of the car. I had already covered everything in duct tape, what more could I possibly do? As I was contemplating my next move, a smart-mouthed boy walked by and said, “Hey...Uh, nice flat tire.” Swear, swear, swear, swear. Apparently my slowly disintegrating car had made me blind to something as simple and obvious as a flat tire. And by flat I mean completely and utterly unusable.

I could hold my composure no longer! (Not that I was holding it very well to begin with). I began making frantic, hysterical, tear-filled phone calls. I asked a friend to pick the boy up from school. I asked my mom to pick the kiddo up from preschool.

The little man informed me that he had to pee.

I sent the girl home with a different friend and called my mom again. She agreed to print the girl’s race forms and forge my signature.

The little man informed me that he would rather pee in the van than cross the street and pee at school.

I called my sister-in-law to get the race forms from my mom, and asked my brother to take the girl to her meet.

Suddenly the van reeked of urine.

I canceled violin.

I was pretty wound up and definitely surprised to hear a voice behind me, “Ma’am? Do you ... need help changing that tire?”

Me: “Yes! Swear, piece of crap car. Swear, swear, swear. Very bad day, swear!”

Man, slightly taken aback by my profanity: “Oh...uh, do you have a spare?”

Me, shaking and still crying, just a little: “I think so? I mean cars have spares, right?”

Man, trying to be a good person: “You know, why don’t we check your trunk.”

I opened the trunk. Thats right--I opened the trunk full of D.I. bags and dirty car parts. I scratched the back of my neck and we both just stared at the large pile of crap in the back of my car. Yeah, this was definitely more awkward than donating things to D.I. “Huh,” he said.

Then it hit me, “Wait a minute! I don’t need you I have roadside!! Ha HA!! But hey thanks for your help, that was super nice, but I’m just going to call roadside and make them deal with it.” “Are you sure?” he asked. “Positive,” I said, “but seriously--Thanks."

He almost left, but instead he stopped as if something funny had just occurred to him. Then he turned around and said, “Hey uh, you look familiar, did we go to the same high school?”

Weird. He did look familiar. Then, because I thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse, it came to me--I knew exactly who he was. Oh no.

“You’re Barry.” My stomach dropped, “We did go to the same high school, but I’m pretty sure you remember me from elementary school.”

When I told him my maiden name he began to slowly back away and said, “Oh right. Um, I better go.”

“Yep.” I said, “I get that.”

You see, I first met Barry when I was in 6th grade, and oh, how I loved him. I really loved him. I used to write him love notes, but because I didn’t want him to know it was me, I would sign another girl’s name, but I always made sure he saw me put them in his desk. No, it doesn’t make sense--but I was twelve and in love. Even though I followed him around at recess and always sat by him during assemblies, it was obvious he didn’t love me back. In fact, looking back, it is highly probable he thought I was creepy.

However, when I got invited to a sleepover at a friend’s house who just happened to live up the street from Barry I knew it was time to pull out the big guns. I talked my friends into getting a Costco-sized box of toilet paper, unrolling it all and writing, “I LOVE Barry” on every square. Then we rolled it back up, stuffed it into shopping bags, and toilet-papered his house with it. Monday at school he learned that it had been my idea to toilet paper his house (thanks a lot 6th-grade-so-called-friends) but he still did not love me.

In 7th grade, my friend and I were walking home from junior high when I noticed Barry walking behind us. It occurred to me that maybe the only reason Barry hadn’t sent me a note confessing his secret, undying love for me, was because he didn’t know where I lived. So I decided to show Barry where I lived. The only problem was that I lived in a cul-de-sac, and he wasn’t going to follow me down the cul-de-sac. BUT, as luck would have it, my house backed up to the road we were walking on, so, in order for him to see where I lived, all I needed to do was climb over the back fence. As my friend hoisted me over the top of the fence, my knee came scraping down the other side, thereby giving me the world's longest, thickest splinter. It was bloody and gross and my friend and I spent at least an hour picking wood out of my knee with tweezers. I still have the scars, but I never got that love note. I am proud to say that was the last of my obsessive, stalkerish behavior. It was time to let Barry go. I honestly don’t remember ever seeing him again, well, until that fateful day in front of the elementary school with a flat tire.

There he was. And I was wearing pearls and heels. Covered in sweat, dirt, grime, and tears. The trunk of my van was full of garbage and my children smelled like urine. Not to mention I’d been cursing like a drunken sailor. And, as Barry slowly backed away from me, I thought, “That’s right, one little love note and you could have had all of this. Who’s the crazy person now? Huh? Who’s the crazy person now?”