I Just Want To Fly...

I spent all day Wednesday closed inside, behind a broken garage door opener...car stuck = Suz paralyzed. Oh, and don't think I am quite so pathetic that I didn't attempt the manual release option that is provided on electronic door openers...the problem was far more complex that a little pulley/release string could cure. And of course I was handling all of this inconvenience with my signature grace and calm serenity...just about ready to b**ch-slap the next person who crossed my path...you know, totally rational as always. And I had a million things I wanted to do and a few that I needed to do...you know, get the kids to school (thanks Pina!), hit Abma's, grab an iced latte (big sis Trish to the rescue...), meet up with Kassie for a long planned and much delayed chit-chat... Instead, I took to Facebook where my friends were sympathetic and helpful, but also pointed to fate...maybe, they suggested, Jesus or God or my guides and higher spirits had put this in place, to force me to chill for a while...nowhere to go, nothing to rush to. But always I am looking to rush...to head out and escape...to meet for drinks or coffee or dinner or lunch...to be out and about. Which only reminded me....

Just last week I had to say goodbye for good to an old friend...and you know, it was difficult for me because I hate goodbyes...I always want things to end on a good note. But honestly, my relationship with said friend had broken down in recent months, though we had once been very close, particularly the past few years. You know how it is...all the bells and whistles were going off, warning lights flashing for months on end. And so, it was clear, though I tried my very best to find a way to make it work, that it would never go back to the way it once had been. So that was it....and I have replaced this old friend with someone new (you must not know 'bout me...), someone younger and in better shape...and though I miss the old days, I am better off....

But still, my darling, dearest Little Blue Jag...I wish it didn't have to end...

Yup...my Little Blue love affair is over. The poor old gal had been sputtering for months...like it was p*ssed at me for something (who isn't?). Almost overnight this Fall, the brakes became all skittish and the engine sounded like an asthmatic ninety-two year old smoker and the heat all of a sudden just quit burning...and this was after the damn thing dropped its transmission on me this summer in the middle of Long Beach Boulevard, cars whizzing by me and swerving, a group of Italian guys in wife beaters stopping traffic and pushing me onto one of those state-named streets in Peahala Park (see, folks, as I have always said: Guidos, on the whole, are nice people...) and I had her towed 92 miles back to Wyckoff Auto, spending $3,000 fixing her up...and still, she was never the same.

I know, I know...the Little Blue Jag was an inanimate object...but there were so many good times together...you know, belting the Backstreet Boys ("But we...are two worlds apart/can't reach to your heart...") on the Westside Highway...playing fake burnt-out trophy wife on the GWB...driving through harrowing summer storms along the Merritt Parkway, the Jag's ratty windshield wipers somehow holding up, precariously though, as the tornado swirled me. And then it was my Dad's pre-set stations on the Jag's radio that introduced me to Friday Night '80's on WFAS (Westchester's Best Music Variety!)...which always seemed to cheer me. But best of all were the drives to Boston, to the Cape and down The Shore (not Seaside, Snooki...), all over the tri-state and then uptown, downtown, across town, East Side, West Side...picking up, dropping off, going out, having fun...I am going to miss those days. I loved that car.

I know missing a car is kind of a pointless pursuit...but our cars house many of our moments...and symbolize something to, and about us, I think. I mean, you know who's coming at you when you see a pickup with a Confederate flag draped in the back window...or a white mini-van with the fake smashed baseball in the window and the "My child is on the Honor Roll at..." bumper sticker....or the red Ferrari, tinted windows, gold rims...you can make a judgement on every one of those drivers just by looking at his or her car...so a car can be a harbinger...letting us know what to expect from its passengers. I don't know what the Little Blue Jag said about me, but I am fine with whatever that was.

The last time I felt quite so connected to a car was back at Stonehill, my little teal 1989 Honda Accord that Annie Murphy named Marge...she was the first car that was all mine...and we spent those most impactful years of my life together...I experienced all those silly College shenanigans and early adulthood strife in Marge's driver's seat. We Orleans Girls made road trips to University of Maine and Merrimack and Loyola in Baltimore and Harvard and URI and Fordham with Marge, blasting Carly Simon's "Anticipation" ("stay right here, cause there are the good old days...") from her speakers and crying together, as we began to anticipate graduation day. And everyone knew Marge belonged to me...my sparkly teal Honda Accord parked behind Duffy. So many memories. When I moved to the Big City in the winter of 1994, I had to send Marge away for good....and I cried because I knew my next car would be an "adult" car...probably a "suburban car"...and most definitely would not know the great times we had as kids with our first taste of freedom. I could only hope that the Honda dealership resold Marge to a bright, shiny college co-ed, adding to the fun times Marge brought me. And I bet that car is still running today, over 20 years later....

But my Little Blue Jag is not being refurbished or resold to a fake burnt-out trophy wife/car singer/tornado-chasing distracted mom...No, no...that old friend truly is gone for good...

So I guess in my car-less paralysis and extra free "pondering" time on Wednesday, I found that it is the freedom a car brings to us that attaches to it a personality, a soul and a heart....because if nothing else, you can get in and go away and, even for a little while, get lost in your own thoughts...and your car is your companion, and can pretty much take you anywhere...with a soundtrack of your choosing. And there is something comforting in knowing that no matter what point you are at in life...how important your job is...how many children you have that need you...how many demands are upon you...how many people love you, want to be with you, expect your help or loyalty or devotion...there is always the freedom to hop in and be on your own...to go wherever you want to go, even for a little while...

But...even I think that the best thing about freedom -- the freedom to sing along to Friday Night '80's ("Say after me/It's no better to be safe than sorry...") at the top of your lungs while cruising the streets with nowhere to go -- is that it is so much more fantastic and fun when someone you love rides shotgun alongside you....

So....wait for me out front, I am on my way...

Photos:

1. Not my garage door, but almost an exact replica of the state of affairs when I woke this morning...

2. Me - Little Blue Jag = The Sads...

3. My dear old friend...well, one that looks like her...probably pushed into place by a gaggle of friendly Guidos...

4. My trusty Garmin perched on the Jag's window, post tornado...

5. Marge -- 1989 - 1994...RIP...is that the parking lot behind Duffy..???

6. Annie Murph, me and Heidi, on the Cape, Senior Week, 1992...delivered to the booze-fest by Marge...

7. Jeanne and I riding double in Marge's shotgun seat, toasting with keg beer the first night of sophomore year, September, 1990...

8. Driving across the sandy dunes after a day at Great Point on Nantucket, where the Nantucket Sound crosses the Atlantic Ocean...a most beautiful and remote spot, and my car got me there...