I get the joy of Botox and the thrill of wearing clothes from college. There’s no reason to look angrier than I am, and it’s definitely cheaper to “vintage shop” from your own closet. Cosmetic intervention, try as it might, cannot freeze the hands of time. Loathe though I am to admit it, I’m made of flesh and bones, not Tungsten. What I’m having a harder time accepting is the recent rash of internal aging coming at me fast and furious. Pun intended.
Because in addition to my own “seasoning,” as they say, I’m witnessing this same reality with my car. I drive a 2009 mom-car with 230,000 miles that, despite all the bodywork I’ve done to maintain its good looks, has required more than a few house calls from our mechanic. “It’s really time to retire this one, dontcha think?” were his parting words most recently. Can car guys be ageist? Frankly, he can be anything he wants. He’s kept my sweet, geriatric car, with the wood steering wheel, on the road.
So what is all this comparing my maturity to that of my car? It’s because we seem to be aging at the same pace. Like my senior car, I have to be picky about what kind of fuel I put in my body. Unlike my car, I have feelings about this. I want to exist on a diet of caffeine and sugar. Walking into Starbucks, with its never-ending innovations for combining the two in colorful, seductive ways, has become a nightmare. Some, like my husband Tod, might argue that high-end gas is a sham, and yet it’s all I’ve ever poured into my tank and the engine still purrs.
The identification doesn’t stop there. The warning lights on the dash are constantly flashing, no matter what I do to extinguish them. Along with the tire pressure light. The bulb in the center console went out years ago. There’s also something that flashes an AFS signal that I can’t recall no matter how many times I ask Claude about it.
Quirks of a life well lived. Signs of real wear and tear. Exactly like me!
Makes me think of those People Magazine pages: “Celebrities Are Just Like Us!” Not sure where I’d pitch “Cars Are Just Like Us!” but in my case, it’s true. I don’t wear tires, but suddenly it matters what shoes I wear to dance class. Last week, I showed up in sneakers with sticky rubber bottoms, lost my balance, and almost crashed into the mirror, like an out-of-control Chevy barreling through a mall window.
Most recently, the “check engine” light of my esophagus went on. My what? Exactly. The burning in my chest flashed incessantly every time I ate or drank, making it feel like a performance art piece about the LA riots was being staged between my ribs. This sign drove me - not to a doctor or a mechanic - but to AI. That’s where I first read about the esophagus. And the impact of acid on it likely from stress - like a car battery- can cause irreparable damage.
If you’re read this far you might be wondering what this profound insight has given me. I can tell you. A sense of humor. Some perspective, even some laughs. It just seems to work that when I have the self-awareness about whatever it is I’m going through and get creative and find some connection to it outside myself, I help myself feel less alone.
Probably best not to overly identify with inanimate objects or chatbots, which experts warn can get a little dangerous. Countless articles have been written about the complexity of this. Here's one from the NY Times and another from Psychology Today.
I’m not confessing undying love for my Rx350 and then driving off into the sunset with it forsaking all family and friends.
But some days the thought of it does make me laugh.
