100 Words #346 – Notes from Vermont
The man at the car rental place looked over my head nearly the entire time we stood there discussing which vehicle would be best to transport me and a tiny, yet not actually small, amount of my belongings. He was wholly unconcerned with my dilemma – the mini van or the Suburban? The cargo van I had reserved was not yet returned, and I didn’t have time to wait another hour or more, so I was left to assess the cargo areas of the mini-van or the giant SUV.
His name tag said, “Michael”. Michael clearly hates his job, I think. He moves in that slow, heavy-limbed way of the soul weary. He didn’t care whether or not I was going to be able to fit my bicycle, several bins, and various other odd sized boxes and baskets and bags. I wanted him to care. I wanted him to notice the neon sign on my forehead flashing, “I’M IN A MAJOR TRANSITION”.
According to the Holmes and Rahe Stress Scale, I have concurrent stressful events that add up to 165. Code level yellow. And this guy, this guy, won’t throw me a bone. He lives and breathes cars for a living. He knows things I don’t, and I need him to tell me which damn vehicle is going to fit little me and my little mountain of stuff.
I ask him for a tape measure and decide on the Suburban. It’s longer. I get it home, and despite my fretting, everything fits with a little room to spare.
I close the gargantuan back of the Suburban, hear the click of the latch and it’s the sound of closing a 7 year chapter of my life. Just like that. Before I start to cry, I point the nose North, and then it was like this:
(Pardon the spots on the windshield – the dude didn’t even wash it for me.)
Your word this week, my dearest word-nerds, is inspired from real life events: