Anxiety and Lime Green Cars

Green carI have a theory.

It is my belief that people who buy brightly coloured cars can’t possibly suffer from anxiety. For 3 weeks we’ve been test driving cars. Finally I’m getting rid of the Impala (complete with wood grain interior). We’ve had it for 10 years and the only reason I agreed to it back then was it had a sunroof, spoiler and tinted windows. Back then the only people who drove Impala’s were old people and cops, which I can only guess was because they could fit a fraternity of drunken university boys in the back seat comfortably. But I liked the car. It was way better than driving the dreaded van. Plus, the upside to driving a cop car is never being pulled over, which is more than I can say about the Caravan. Who gets pulled over in a Caravan? This girl.

What can I say? I’m a bad ass.

A bad ass who can’t stick to a topic…

Anyway, buying a new car stresses me out, well really buying a shirt stresses me out… but in this situation…Which car? Is it safe? Is it sexy? Will it fall apart in 5 years?  Will it make me look 20lbs lighter? So I did what any decision challenged, anxiety ridden person would do in today’s social media world. I asked Facebook for opinions. Here’s what I learned.

Ford people hate Chevy.

Chevy people hate Ford.

Both of them hate Foreign.

I got no help what so ever because it’s a personal decision and sadly I suck at those.

We finally decided on the car. I’m not posting what kind because first, I don’t want to offend anyone… but really I’m afraid of receiving comments. Something else I’ve learned is that people love to tell you their car horror stories, especially if you just purchased the same car. Just know this, we went with the car that gave us the most bang for our buck, good warranty but sexy enough to satisfy, unfortunately though we did sacrifice our patriotism. Please forgive me Canada, but the way I see it the employee who sold it to me was Canadian, so you know food on his table and the tables of all the service workers at the dealership. I can rationalize anything. Try me.

I shouldn’t have said that. I’m going to get emails.

Now here is where the decision got really hard and the whole reason for this rambling post.

What colour?

How could colour be such a hard decision? I have to admit, I didn’t see it coming. We jumped back and forth for a week. Now get this, it wasn’t even a bright colour we were deciding on. It was black or white.

BLACK or WHITE!

Because I knew neon green, bright red or even a simple blue would just stress me out. This is where the theory comes in. I looked at all the brightly coloured cars on the lot and I thought, “Not a chance in hell could I ever be comfortable in that.”

I started paying attention to the brightly coloured cars driving around. I would look at the driver and think, now that’s a person who’s comfortable with themselves and knows what they want. I want to be like that.

I’m not.

Black is super sexy and happened to be the floor model sitting there all sleek and shiny with its tinted windows, calling my name and I did like the look of it better. But as my sister so lovely (not so much) reminded me, I’m not exactly great at keeping things clean. Black shows everything. I know because all I could base my decision on was what was around me and what was around me was a dirty, dented, scratched BLACK Dodge Caravan.

Plus my daughter pointed out that cosmically we didn’t want two black vehicles. Buying another black one could screw with our universe. “Go with white,” she said, “Ying and Yang and all of that.”

True. True. Plus the husband will be driving the black van and me the white car, making me good and him evil.

We went white. It’s a balance thing.

If I was really serious about facing my fears maybe I should’ve got the lime green car. If I drove around in a bright car would I develop some kind of sureness about myself? …Or end up in an ugly lime green car questioning my ability to make a rational choice?

Someone with more credibility than me should do a study on the anxiety levels of people in bright colours. I need to know if I’m on to something. Then I can do one of those magazine survey things. “What Your Car Colour Says About You.”

What colour of car do you drive?

Working Through My Fear

I’m going crazy trying to figure out what to write about. I start a million things and abandon them. My passion, enthusiasm and motivation are at a standstill. My therapist says I’m a perfectionist pussy…without the pussy part, but I know he’s thinking it. Apparently, I put such high demands on myself that I’m too scared to produce anything. Because, “Oh My God it could suck.”

Or scariest of all, what if it doesn’t? What if it’s good?

Shiver.

What makes that scary? I can’t answer that because it would have to be the perfect answer and there isn’t one. The short answer I don’t know, but I’ve been trying to figure it out.

The thing is the best writing, the stuff that really speaks to you whether it touches your deepest soul or makes you pee your pants with laughter is done by an author who is honest and shows vulnerability. It’s when you can relate that makes it good…makes it real. The trouble is society shakes its finger at realism. Vulnerability is weakness, not human.  We put on a front to save our dignity while watching scripted reality television folks.

Yay us!

I’m scared to actually be real and that’s holding me back. Once something is out there, it’s out there, which means friends, employers, kids can read it and it doesn’t go away. If you choose a public forum to lay out your opinions, idiosyncrasies or God forbid your skeletons you open yourself up to criticism which isn’t exactly something a perfectionist can overcome easily.

Plus, my Mom would have a shit fit. On a side note, it’s amazing how your Mother’s opinion still influences all your decisions…even in your 40’s.

I keep thinking the time will come when I’ll stop caring what people think and just write what goes on in my wacky head…but what if you hate it? What if you like it? Is the glass half empty or full? It’s a vicious circle. Sometimes I want to just give it up and go on with being an employee, wife and Mother. It would be easier, but would it be right?

Then I think of all the great things that could happen if I score a best seller…like going on a book tour and getting asked to write the screen play.  I’ll go to lunch with John Cusack and we’ll have witty intelligent banter before he agrees to play the leading man.  And let’s not forget having martini’s with Kelly Ripa the night before I guest host Live. We’ll giggle and give each other knowing looks the next morning throughout the broadcast. Oh, that Kelly, you couldn’t possibly know the time we had…

So. Much. Fun.

These are things I actually think about. Don’t even get me started on charades with Ellen and Portia.

The unfortunate part to this fantasy is when I get a free moment and sit in front of a blank screen; my funny, witty thoughts and creativity take a detour. It’s so frustrating. I wish I could make a career out of snappy Facebook retorts. One, two lines and I’d have it made, but putting the time in to write another novel or even this blog seems impossible sometimes. I’m tired.  I work a full time job. I have two kids with multiple extracurricular activities, my dog needs walked, I manage to exercise, despite and because of the 20lbs I’ve gained this year. I’m slightly depressed. Plus, I’m only on season 2 of Breaking Bad for shit sake and you expect me to find time to write?

Related: I hate reality.

It’s all fear.

Fear is an asshole. A mother fucking asshole.

I almost erased the cursing for fear of you judging me, but there it is anyway; my first step out of fear.

Sorry, Mom.