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: