She Drives Me Crazy

I remember when my dad bought her. I was 16. He described her as having the same features as this new thing called a Prius, but it was more affordable and wasn’t a hybrid car. Of course he made sure she was complete with a CD player and no power windows, in case they could cause you to be trapped inside. She was forest green, which I immediately hated because they had an awesome light teal colored one I thought was way cuter.
She’s the car I learned to drive on. It was in a tiny bank parking lot in our tiny home town which seems like a whole different life ago, lately. She was a 2000 Toyota Echo, which I pronounced “Etch-O,” because I thought I was being cute and quippy. When my parents split up, the Echo accompanied my dad to Oregon. I drove my mom’s Honda or Mazda or whatever. Basic four door sedan thing, easy to drive and fairly ordinary looking. I took my driver’s test much later in a Honda CR-V, but when my dad rescued me from my mother in Florida, “Enid” the Echo as she would later be named, came down from Oregon to scoop me up.
I can’t pretend I was excited to see either one of them, Enid or my dad that is, but they were there, just like they always have been. The Echo towed a trailer with all my furniture in it, 2,500 miles up the mountains to Eugene, Oregon in 5 of the longest and most miserable days ever. Before we even got 4 hours out she took away our air conditioning capabilities because she’d overheat from towing our emotional baggage and the massive trailer. No one could believe we fit an entire bedroom set and all my other crap in just an Echo and a trailer. But we were rock stars.

As soon as we got home to Oregon, my dad and I shared the Echo. Finally he bought a truck to better suit his needs for life in the woods and Enid became my own. I had the newest car of my friends in High School. She was cute. I eventually started adorning her in stickers. If you look at my Echo and then others, you start to see how they actually just look ridiculous without being covered in bumper stickers. I had punk rock bands, offensive political statements about Bush and random other band’s names, plastered all over her. She’s very eclectic.

Her name came to me shortly after meeting some friends that had a band. All of their cars had names, like “The Faded Patch,” and such. During a phase where I was obsessed with the Barenaked Ladies, I heard this song “Enid.” And I thought…”Hmm, Enid the Etch-O. Has quite the ring to it.” And so she has become the greatest car there ever was!

Currently Enid has over 230,000 miles on her. She has been across the country 3 times. She’s been up and down the Oregon Coast, seen Washington, Idaho, and even driven down Lombard Street in San Francisco. She got to ride on a trailer when we moved to Tampa two years ago, because she’s such precious cargo but she’s a BAMF with no doubt.

My father trained me to be meticulous about taking care of her. More than most chicks would ever. So I am: Oil changes regularly, tires, general maintenance and always treating her well. This is a car that has been there for me for a decade. She’s been with me longer than I’ve known my husband!

An ex-boyfriend almost stole her once. It was just her and me on the tearful drive home. She used to help me get my favorite little ones to the park to feed the ducks. Lolly even decorated her in Dora The Explorer stickers, that are still on the rear window. Enid gave me the momentum to get my only speeding tickets. She drove all the people I loved the most around at one time or another. She got my old best friend and his sister’s to their grandparent’s final moments, got countless friends to concerts, and never let any one of us down.

She camped, she was a mountaineer and even hit the gravel roads deep in the Oregon woods to get to my dad’s off the grid cabin. She saved our lives when we spun out on the highway on black ice with barely a scrape or scratch on her. We were going 60miles per hour and easily could have flipped and crashed through the embankment but instead she just bounced and turned, halting us safely.

On our wedding night someone broke Enid’s window and stole some of our stuff before our big move to Florida. She let us patch her up with duct tape and withstood a wicked southern rainstorm until we could get her window fixed. She always takes care of us, and we’ll always take care of her.
Since we’ve been down in Florida, we’ve put a lot of miles on her. We can’t afford a new car any time soon, so we are very attentive to her needs. She’s cost us some bucks over the last two years but she’s getting old so she deserves some TLC. It was on Sunday night recently though, that she was seemingly taking a turn for the worse.

We’d just gotten her oil changed. My husband had recently made the rule that she really needs to run a few minutes after sitting for more than a couple of hours before we just take off, so she gets warmed up before every outing. One rainy morning, she seemed to be choking in some way. I could feel her jerking a bit under me. It wasn’t enough for her to not work, but it was concerning. She quit her jolts a few minutes in and got us to work. Sunday afternoon though, she wasn’t quitting. The entire drive across town, unless I hit 50miles per hour, I could feel her having a tough time.

Sundays are often my Friday so I met my husband at the bar and he fed me candy-flavored shots and a beer. Finally we left and he drove us home. It was when he felt it that he immediately said, “I’m taking her in first thing in the morning.” I was rolling my eyes about it costing money when a pained look crossed his face. He said, “Oh, no…I hope it’s not the transmission, because that’s like 2,000$ and we’d have to buy a new car.”

My buzzed emotional self lost it. I actually felt the tears running down and sobbed. “No! She’s the best car in the world! It’s not her time to go! She’s been with me forever! She’s the only car I’ve ever had!” Because my husband is a great man, he just holds my hand and says, “Honey, I’m sure she’s fine. She’s great but we need to check it out. And she’s an old girl so we’ll just see.”
At this point all I can think about is how offensive that new car smell would be. How could I be in a car with no dog hair, and without stickers? Then I pictured them smashing her in one of those giant machines and I just bit my lip and felt another tear push my mascara into my eyes. I paused a couple times admitting it was ridiculous that I was crying over a car but Enid wasn’t “a car!” SHE WAS MY CAR!

When I had no one, Enid was there to take me away. When everything in my life sucked, she was still there. She was the only piece of Pennsylvania I truly had left that wasn’t a photograph, family member or friend. She followed me everywhere. She drives me crazy in all the best ways! She’s never stranded me or would ever hurt me. As the great Queen song proclaims, “I’m in love with my car!”

I barely slept that night and as I tossed and turned I just begged the universe for it to not be the transmission or cripplingly expensive. My husband rolled out of bed and took her in. It took an hour just for the diagnostic. I felt like I was waiting for them to say she had car cancer. When he called, he asked what all people ask in those situations: “Good or bad news first?”

“Bad,” I said.

“The cylinders and the spark plugs all have to be replaced and they don’t have the parts. Good news is it’s not the transmission.”

“WHEW!” I thought, as he interjected, “But it’s still going to cost about $500 bucks.”
Ugh! Can’t we catch a break!? But I was quickly calmed at the fact that Enid was going to be okay. They sent my husband home with a newish, bright red Toyota Camry. He looked ridiculous in it. It was huge and so clean and…NEW! It felt weird. I didn’t know how soon we would get the car back and I had a crummy day at work until my co-worker buddies showed up and then one said, “I’ll see if I can see a shiny red car waiting for you.”

“Oh wait,” she said, “He’s got your car! And there’s Brodie!” I was instantly happy to see my car waiting for my with my pug hanging out the window. The family was back together: Eben, Ali, Brodie and Enid the Etch-O. I know I’ll lose it when her time comes, but for now, we have a lot of family events to do together, and even though she can drive us crazy, she can drive us everywhere!

Run, Fat Girl, RUN!

It’s been a rough summer…We started with this awesome vacation to see the family on the West Coast. And vacation, is vacation. There’s no calorie counting and no cares. We hiked, I went to a friend’s step class, we walked a lot but we were there to relax and not care! Drama hit afterward and I was just so exhausted from dealing with it all, working out wasn’t a high priority.

Three years ago before we even got engaged I was pushing maximum density. Between being a food lover, being in love with a chef, and my cocktail enthusiast side, even working out wasn’t really balancing out my intake. A family member joined Weight Watchers and although I’d originally scoffed, she was kicking some major ass, so I fell on that bandwagon. I got back into my workouts. I do love working out. It makes me feel so much better! I got some personal counseling and I made myself lose the weight.

By the time Eben proposed, I was 10lbs down. They say nothing kicks you into gear like an impending wedding. They were so right. I had a gorgeous blonde bombshell of a friend who was also a personal trainer. With Weight Watchers, a strict routine, and the help of Alicia, by the end of it I’d lost 20lbs and fit into a size 4 for the first time since high school. And I didn’t loathe my body much anymore. Success!

For the past two years I’d managed to maintain that figure within about a 5lb range. Ladies, who are we kidding? We can gain 5lbs in a day if the mood is right. Women’s bodies are bitches, just like we end up being because we are trapped into them! I went to spin class a few times a week, hit yoga and body sculpting classes, the elliptical and stair master. I didn’t indulge too hard core and I kept tabs on it all.

In March after a crazy stretch of time where I was working so much that food became a far off dream between naps, and I was lucky if I could grab a granola bar, let alone a fulfilling meal, I’d actually squeezed into the skinny jeans for a week or so but I didn’t feel the need to be skinny really, just healthy.

I come from a long line of petite women who can stay petite but can also balloon up into something of a lumpy pear with compulsive eating habits and alcoholic tendencies. I’ve straddled both the skinny and chunky for most of my life. When I’m active my body shows it, and when I’m inactive, it really shows it.

Before the big vacation this June I cancelled my gym membership because between the puppy, work and everything else, we didn’t need the added expense, and I didn’t have enough time to make it worthwhile. I had a Wii Fit, Wii Active and a decent elliptical at our crummy apartment complex gym to keep me going. I also discovered the dog liked to jog, so I should indulge with him.

I guess six months of “Whatever, I don’t care, I’ll have a gym membership this fall to make up for it,” bit me in my ever expanding ass, after all. When they say it’s easier to put it on than it is to take it off, they aren’t joking! I shouldn’t have justified it when the pants started to get tight. I shouldn’t have spent so much time sucking it in. I should have gotten my ass out of the chair…shoulda, coulda, woulda!

So I made the mistake of getting on the evil square known as the scale, and it may as well have just read “Fat Bitch.” The number amount pretty much said that perfectly! And then the water works started! I, all of the sudden, wished there was some strange way of my being pregnant and the damn baby was making me chunky, but all of the alcohol units wouldn’t have made that possible, so then I stood there getting on and off of the damn scale, sucking it in and willing it to drop down two measly numbers just so I could endure more justifications.

I forced my husband into caring even though he did the obligatory, “You’re beautiful no matter what,” song and dance complete with a “Who cares babe?” and “We’ll do whatever you want to make you feel better about it,” chorus and encore performance. I text my new Bestie feverishly, and she confessed the evil scale had done the same to her! I’d paused thinking there may be some kind of terrible conspiracy and my pants weren’t 6’s and 8’s but really 0’s and 2’s, rebelling against the confines of their size-ist makers, but was shocked back into the reality that I’m just chunky when she told me she’d caved and joined Weight Watchers. We vowed to kick ass together.

Peeling myself out of bed to go to work, where the pretty ones would parade around me all day, I managed to look decent and get my fat ass going. I blamed the dog about my weight and he just whined and snuffed at me as if to say, “Bullshit!” When I got to work my gorgeous and athletic co-worker arrived in a kind of funky mood. I knew she LOVED to talk fitness, so I instantly attacked!

Trying desperately to not just blurt out, “Please inject me with whatever it is you take that makes you perfect and makes you like to run and race and everything in between,” I let her use me as a sponge. I forced my Bestie into the conversation and before you knew it, some strange hope had brewed in me, that maybe one day soon I wouldn’t just be another fat girl that the rail-skinny perfect ones make fun of.

I thought my athletic goddess of a co-worker had pretty much finished her pep talk with me about how we’d train together and help each other out when she emerged with a daring idea: “Let’s work up to the Turkey Trott on Thanksgiving in Clearwater! It’s a 10k!” She felt me wince and responded, “They have a 5k too!”

I pictured running that morning with her and my Bestie, and later to come home to an amazing bath amidst the smells of the feast my husband would be preparing, and how after two months of behaving I’d just pig out on my favorite day and I blurted out, “YES! Let’s do it!” Uh oh, there was no turning back now. I’d put it into the universe. It’d set it in motion. Before I knew it, the Bestie was more excited than I and we’d even recruited another co-worker…this was happening!

I told my husband and he was just like, “That’s great, babe!” I was expecting more of a response. I’d imagined more of a, “Wow babe, you are going to kick that race’s ass! You will be able to go so fast and impress everyone! We should buy you a cute outfit. Of course I’ll cook you a feast and be waiting to massage your feet when you get home,” kind of response but, I’d take what I could get.

This is a big deal! The diet’s on! I’m not a big diet girl most of the time but I do know how to scale things back. I do believe that all women should just be perfect, pretty and comfortable while eating buckets of KFC and out-drinking men in Beer and Liquor contests, without even gaining an ounce, but that is SO not the world we live in. I hate how the weight thing will always haunt me. It will follow me around forever like the sound of my mother sighing when the size 4 jeans she just bought me didn’t quite zip, or when I chose to wear fashionable sweat pants instead of quote, unquote “slacks,” for which I might add are inadequately titled because they NEVER provide any “slack!”

I’ve started on a good note so far. I do enjoy eating healthy but who doesn’t love ice cream, cookies and wine? Especially all in the same day! I do have a fat girl mentality for sure, I just hate when she shows up physically, making a muffin top appear out of my pants that used to be “roomy.” My sister once accused me of being bulimic because I lost weight and toned my body, so I replied “No, I like food too much.” She curtly replied, “Which is why you would be bulimic!” How stupid of me!

I wish I could be bulimic, or anorexic, or just smoke a bunch of cigarettes and crack and become one of those cold women who make it all look so easy but can’t even deal with how many calories are in a Tic Tac! No, if I’m wishing, I wish I were like my goddess coworker who runs 10 miles for a warm up and can bike out of the state and back with only 8 ounces of water! Yes, I’m idolizing her, but why not? We all know and sigh at one of these women every time they burst through the door with perfect sunlight providing them a runway! I’m lucky if I don’t fall on a daily basis!

Sometimes I like being curvy. I own it. Also, I’m married so there’s really no one left to impress, but one of the groomsmen told me I shouldn’t be another fat wife and I totally agree. Even though I desperately want to eat an entire container of cheese balls while watching hours of chick flicks, I know I should go for a run and eat celery instead. At least when I weigh less and I’m still curvy, I can be proud.

Of course once I started figuring out how to enroll in the Turkey Trott, all I could envision was a montage from that movie “Run, Fatboy, Run,” and of me hitting the “Runner’s Wall,” or just tripping less than a mile in and ruining the entire effort. But, regardless, I’m going to do it. I’m not much of a runner or a jogger but this is a commitment to an accomplishment I so desperately want to achieve. I have EVERYTHING to lose. The tummy, the ass, the thighs, and the ambivalence that’s literally been weighing me down!

So this fat chick is going to run! I’m going to run like the wind on Thanksgiving! But if you think about it, it’s really just so I can stuff my face afterwards…so if that’s not motivation enough, what is!? I guess you’ll hear about it all afterwards, and if I could even stomach all the food I’m already fantasizing about. Run, fat girl, run!