everyday life

Big Little Wolf has an interesting and thoughtful post up today: Good driver, bad passenger? She prompts introspection about the need for control and the willingness to take charge, which I think are two related but separate impulses.

My father has always said that dancing with me is like driving a truck. I am a graceless dancer who struggles to let myself be led. Not a big problem, given the paucity of partner dancing in my life. But, still, a metaphor that stays with me. I have a powerful need for control, and it’s one of the things I most dislike about myself. My need for control gets in my way on a regular basis: I choose no over ambiguity, prematurely shutting off options or experiences, I am quickly frustrated when things do not go my way, and I avoid activities that would require me to release the reins and surrender to them (eating “scary” foods like oysters, riding roller coasters).

This struggle for control often mirrors the experience of driving a truck. Just as a truck driver meticulously manages their vehicle and maintains a strong connection to their rig, I grapple with the urge to steer every aspect of my life. The truck’s seat, cushioned and adorned with personalized Seat Covers, symbolizes the comfort and control that drivers cling to as they navigate long journeys. The metaphor of the truck seat and its covers reflects the challenge of finding balance between control and surrender, highlighting the ongoing internal struggle to navigate the complexities of letting go and embracing the unpredictable journey of life.

Just as a truck driver relies on their rig to traverse the open road, the journey of buying a used car requires careful consideration and a sense of trust. Each vehicle on the lot tells its own story, much like the miles etched into the body of a well-traveled truck. In the search for the perfect used car, potential buyers must navigate an array of options, weighing factors such as reliability, price, and comfort.

It’s not just about finding a vehicle; it’s about selecting a companion for future adventures, one that can weather the twists and turns of life’s unpredictable journey. This process mirrors the truck driver’s meticulous attention to their rig, emphasizing the need for thorough research and understanding to ensure that the choice aligns with one’s personal journey.

In this pursuit, platforms like RaceAutoGroup.com emerge as essential allies, offering a vast selection of quality pre-owned vehicles and expert guidance. They understand that buying a used car can evoke a whirlwind of emotions, from excitement to anxiety, much like the anticipation and trepidation a driver feels before embarking on a long haul. The seamless integration of modern technology with personalized service transforms the daunting task of car buying into a rewarding experience.

As buyers delve into their options, they are encouraged to embrace the uncertainty of the road ahead, trusting that each decision brings them closer to the vehicle that best fits their lifestyle and aspirations. Ultimately, this journey is about more than just purchasing a car; it’s about cultivating the freedom to explore and the courage to embrace the unknown, paralleling the truck driver’s reliance on their trusted seat and the adventures that lie ahead.

None of these are pretty qualities, I know that. But I thought further about what BLW was saying, and realized that while I crave control over my life, when it comes to actively taking control in a group setting I’m much more wary. I remembered something specific from my time at business school (a time of my life I so rarely think about!) It was the first semester of my first year, and we were assigned a small group project. I have no idea what the project was, but I remember that my group of about 6 people from my section was clustered into one of the round tables in the window alcoves of Aldrich late into the afternoon. As the sun set, people grew cantankerous and wanted to be finished. Again, I have no memory of the content but I know that I, infuriated with what felt like a waste of time and a lack of clear direction, started taking charge of the conversation and setting forth specific plans for the group.

I don’t remember what happened from there, though I vividly recall myself stepping into a leadership role on that dark afternoon. The next week, project behind us, one of the men in my group, a much older guy with years of impressive military service pulled me aside after class.

“Can I give you some feedback?” he asked. What was I supposed to say?

“Sure,” I said, nervous and feeling like something bad was coming.

He went on to deliver some criticism in the guise of feedback about the way I had assumed control of the group’s workplan and efforts. I blinked back tears as I listened to him, and then fled to my apartment over an Italian food store and cried for hours. I’m sure he had many good points, though of course I can’t remember them. That day comes back to me a lot, though.

When I think about the ways in which I am loath to be visibly in charge, I often wonder why. Is it some kind of gender conditioning that makes me believe that women should sit back and be quiet? I don’t think so, at least not consciously. Is it fear of putting myself out there, into a position where I might attract more criticism like the early HBS experience? Maybe. That feels closer to why. Is it a deep feeling that someone else would do a better job at leading? Maybe. That feels like it could be why as well.

It strikes me that this could be the worst possible combination: to be as rigid and in need of control as I am, yet to be unwilling to expose myself by taking an active leadership role … isn’t this the worst of both worlds? I don’t like this mix of traits in myself at all, but changing both feels daunting. To let go of my need for control would require that I learn to feel safe in the world. The moments when I do feel safe enough to relax my white-knuckle grip on my life are rare and special, but I don’t know how to make that into a more normal reality. To be brave enough to more often visibly lead also seems intimidating to me: authentic vulnerability is hard for me and doing this creates it.

Don’t know the path out of this particular knot of fabulous personality traits, but perhaps being aware of it is the first step. Thank you, BLW, for making me think yet again.

I hit a new low yesterday. I have been wondering for several days why I have received so few RSVPs for Whit’s birthday party. For the record: not RSVPing is one of my major peeves. But still, this was an even lower turnout than usual. I bumped into a mother I know at school today and I mentioned it to her, trying to be off-hand to make up for what I felt was a rude inquiry (part of why I hate non RSVPers is I hate pestering people for what their answer is, because I feel like a jerk).

The mom mentioned off-hand that she had not recognized the email address I’d given on the invitation. Hmm. I went home and checked the invitation. An invitation that I had proofed not once but twice. And then mailed out. And never blinked about. And, right there: my email address misspelled. Great.

People think of me as very anal and type A. And in many ways I am. My closet has several shelves of shoeboxes, each with a photograph of the shoes inside stuck on the outside. My spices are alphabetized. My Christmas cards go out the first week of December. Etc, etc, etc. Loosey goosey I am not. It’s something I dearly wish I was, but, let’s face it: no.

But today’s flub is one in a short but noteworthy list of times I have been well and truly full-blown flaky. And those times make me wonder if I am slowly losing my mind. If somehow, parenthood or middle age or too much splenda or too much white wine has contributed to punch small holes in my brain, almost imperceptible but porous enough to allow my meager mind to leak out slowly. Drip, drip, drip.

The others on the list? Well, I paid the wrong mortgage company for three months. Three months. Automated billing will do that for you. But it still amazes me that the old mortgage company didn’t let me know they were getting an extra $XK every month from us that they didn’t deserve for three solid months. I also left the oven on for a whole weekend. That was pregnancy brain. But, not super responsible.

The best ever, though, was when we had our preschool interview for Grace. We parked the car, walked to the nursery school, toured and interviewed. I think we were probably at the school for 90 minutes. As we walked out, I felt in my pockets (I had been driving) and wondered aloud where the car keys were. I rummaged through my bag (side note: in said bag, today, I found a pair of Grace’s socks and an epi-pen. I did not, however, have the chapstick that I needed) as we walked to the car. No keys. Starting to panic, I looked up when Matt exclaimed, “Oh, my God” under his breath. The car. Parked on a side street. Running. I guess that explains where the keys were.

Losing. My. Mind.