The car, part 3

Last week, my car hit the 200,000 mile mark. And today, I managed to roll into a truck. That was sitting behind me. On a slight hill. At a red light.

I know, I'm an idiot. A very tired and worn out idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. I mean, who manages to trip over the corner of the bed and hit her head against the bathroom door? Who accidentally backwashes her pool with the return valves set to 'off'? Who gets stuck in her own tri-top? Who adjusts her hair, lets her foot slip off the brake and does not realize she's rolling backwards until she hits the tow hooks on the front of the truck behind her? Yes, me. 

Fortunately, the man in the truck was grace himself. He was more concerned about the state of my bumper than his car, which, as he said, was "only" a truck. He peered at the mark left by the lamppost, and I don't even want to know what he was thinking when I told him that was the leftover from hitting a lamp post last month. He adjusted his tag, which my bumper had bent, told me all was fine, not to worry about the tag, and went on his merry way. I could have cried when he drove off, and I'm not sure if that was from relief, shock, or fatigue. 

Look, I know my job is busy, but lately it has been kicking my behind. I've cried for no reason at least once already this semester, and that usually doesn't happen until Thanksgiving. And in case you're wondering, yes, I eat well, I exercise a moderate amount (yes, really, i have cut back from Mega Insane to Slightly Insane), and I get an average of eight hours of sleep per day. It's just that when I'm awake, it just doesn't slow down. Ever. And American academe is nothing like its European counterpart, where you can take time off to recover, hand some of your responsibilities back to whoever assigned them to you. Or talk to your boss about how you have too much on your plate and need a break. Well, you can do all of that, but you may not have a job waiting for you after summer. Or, if you have tenure like I do, you'll be teaching your classes at seven in the morning. In the basement. And I think that's finally starting to catch up with me. Not the teaching in the basement, as I'm not there yet, but the never-ending list of things to do. Now if only I had a funny solution to all this, I might be able to salvage this post, but I don't have anything funny or solution-like. I have a job, it's 90 miles away, and right now, it's bat guano crazy busy. So yeah, no funny twist here. Sorry. If you have one, do share. I could use a laugh. And until then, well, I guess it's time to pull out that old military adage, and embrace the suck. 

On the side of the road

It was bound to happen someday. The question was just when. And even more important: where. Apparently last week my number was up, and it was my turn to finally break down on the side of the road. All things considered, I got really lucky. First, it happened on a Monday, and as we all know, Mondays suck anyway. Second, it happened right as I turned on to the interstate, which a) put me within fifteen miles of my house, and b) meant the next exit was a mile away. Third, it was only a sort of breakdown. Obviously, a breakdown is a breakdown since it always involves something that prevents you from driving, but in my case, it wasn't an engine, or a tire. It was a wheel well cover. Yeah. I know, I didn't even know my car had such a thing, but it does. And when it comes loose, it prevents your tire from properly turning, which means you're not really going anywhere, except to a place to stop really quickly. 

I am not quite sure how it happened. My car has been the victim of retreads on several momentous occasions, including one where half my fender liner was scraping along the interstate, but husband-dear always managed to fnagle it all back together with tie wraps and a hair dryer. So whether I ran into some retread and just never noticed it, or whether the two dozen tie wraps finally gave up, I really don't know. All I know is that I had just merged on to the interstate  when a loud screeching noise made me look over at the car beside me and think something ungracious about people who do not take care of their cars. But the car passed and the noise continued. When I noticed my car wasn't steering properly, I realized it was me. And that I better get off the road asap. 

So there I was, parked at a deserted gas station, at 6:45 in the morning, in my cute black and green dress and matching pumps, looking at this:

So what does any self-respecting, liberated, third-wave feminist do? 

Call her husband of course. 

Who turned out to not be at his desk. Nor answering his cell phone. Some digging into my early morning memory made me remember that husband-dear was at PT. And I'm sure my ever-patieny husband was just thrilled to hear his name broadcast over the PA system, and then to have the gym front desk clerk tell him his wife was stranded by the side of the road. Just thrilled. 

I was definitely not responding in my usual manner. I mean, one would expect me to be freaking out about the three classes and two meetings I needed to be getting ready for, the weird guys loitering about, none of whom stopped to ask if I needed help, and work, but I didn't. I did the math, figured that in an ideal world I would be fifteen minutes late to my first class, emailed my class and our department secretary, listened to NPR, and just chilled

Strange. I know. Well, I figured, at least I could count on husband-dear to be frustrated. Right?

Wrong. When husband-dear pulled up, he was grace personified. He drove right over, only stopping by the house to pick up his toolbox, and was his usual chipper 'we'll fix this in a jiffy' self. Only he couldn't. And after observing the numerous men pulling up to the gas station, loitering, and staring at me, he went all manly and told me to take the CRV while he took my poor little Fit into the shop. 

So there I was, an hour later than usual, driving down a now deserted interstate, in a still almost new CRV with leather seats, cruise control, and a whole host of other gadgets, and I realized that maybe breaking down wasn't such a bad thing after all...

Ik ben een meisje van negen jaar...

Of zestien dan. Of, als ik me bijzonder volwassen voel, eenentwintig. Maar dan heb je het ook wel gehad. Nooit, maar dan ook nooit voel ik mij mijn ware leeftijd (29. Al jaren. Echt). En ik voel me al helemaal nooit "Dr", of "professor". Laat staan "de vrouw van". En laten we het maar helemaal niet hebben over dat hele stiefmoeder gedoe. Ik ben negen. Of zestien (of 21), en als ik later groot ben wil ik brandweervrouw worden.

Ik heb zo eens rondgevraagd, en klaarblijkelijk hebben wel meer, voornamelijk vrouwelijke, collega's hier last van. Het geval dat je veel jonger, veel onervarener, en ook veel minder slim bent dan dat je bent. Of dat men denkt dat je bent. Of dan de indruk die jij hebt achtergelaten. Volgt u het allemaal nog? Stiekem zijn we allemaal 'frauds' die nog lang niet klaar zijn om een 'working professional' te zijn, en die hun PhD bij elkaar gespaard hebben met de zegeltjes van de Becel. Of, om cultureel-relevant te blijven, met de pakjes Cracker Jacks.

En soms is dat best wel lastig. Want dan word je in een keer voor dingen gevraagd waar je als negen (of 16) jarige nog helemaal niet aan toe bent. Of denkt te zijn. Zo werd ik van de zomer gevraagd om "chair" van de IRB aan mijn universiteit te zijn. En uiteraard riep ik meteen ja, want naast dat ik klaarblijkelijk moeite heb met tellen, ben ik ook nog eens een ontzettende type-A persoonlijkheid, die altijd moet bewijzen dat ze toch echt slim is. En weet wat ze doet. En alles kan.
Maar ja, dan zit je daar dus. Als kersverse chair van de IRB. Dan in een keer word jij geacht leiding te geven aan het orgaan dat onderzoek goed- of afkeurt. En dat onderbouwd met bewijslast uit federale stukken. En meer van dat soort moeilijke dingen. En alhoewel je dat best kan, want sja, je bent al vier jaar lid van de IRB, roept je hoofd steeds dat dit natuurlijk helemaal geen taak is voor een meisje zoals jij. Je bent veel te jong, veel te onervaren, en die PhD, dat was natuurlijk gewoon puur toeval. Je had gewoon een paar jaar lang even niks anders te doen.

Vandaag moest ik er echter echt aangeloven. Mijn eerste vergadering. Met de secretaresse naast me, die me zo nu en dan dingen toefluisterde als "Vergeet de motie om goed te keuren niet", riep ik hele professionele dingen als "Do we have a second?" en "Can you design a policy for that?", en deed alsof ik precies wist waar ik het over had.
Pfft.


En toen bedacht ik me, wat als iedereen zich nou eens zo voelt? Wat als iedereen die leiding geeft stiekem een acht-jarig meisje of elf-jarig jongetje is, die er toevallig uitziet als een volwassen man of vrouw? Wat als iedereen nou het gevoel heeft dat ze maar "wat doen", maar dat gewoon leuk, of stoer, of streng verpakken? Wat als iedereen nog steeds droomt over hoe het zijn om politie agent te zijn, of boswachter, of brandweervrouw? Zijn we dan eigenlijk allemaal niet heel druk bezig om te doen alsof we weten waar we het over hebben, en is er eigenlijk niemand die -echt- weer hoe het moet? Does everyone just make it up as they go along?

Stiekem, he, stiekem denk ik dus dat dat het is. We doen allemaal maar wat. Alleen de slimme onder ons hebben geleerd om dat heel professioneel te verpakken. En daardoor denkt de rest van ons dat zij het wel weten, en wij niet. Maar dat is dus eigenlijk helemaal niet zo. Om in de woorden van Brigitte Kaandorp te blijven, "Het hoeft niks te zijn, als het maar wat lijkt."

Als ik er zo over nadenk, dan valt dat chair-schap eigenlijk nog best wel mee.
Bring it.