You know the car… the slick, shiny sports car that zooms past you as you drive placidly in the correct lane… dazzling you with its perfectly waxed finish… body lines so sleek you find yourself wanting to touch them reverently… growling exhaust… smooth handling… and an inexplicable air of danger and adventure…
That’s not me. I’m the station wagon it zips past. You know the one… comfortable and familiar… utilitarian and functional… reliable, even if a bit plain in appearance… finish dulled by long miles and marred by scratches and dents… burning a bit of oil, but still doing its damnedest to get where you’re going… the air of danger replaced by an air of steadfastness and stolidness…
She’s the sports car. She’s the one you covet, crave, glance at almost guiltily while sitting in my driver’s seat, hands at 10 and 2, knowing that one would be wrapped around the stick and the other one coolly draped if you were behind her wheel. As you navigate around corners by slowing you daydream of punching her into corners, hearing the deep, throaty rumble of her exhaust as you punch it on the straight-aways.
OK, that sounds pretty negative. I don’t mean it that way, it’s not that I think that you’re thinking of her when you’re with me, I just got a bit carried away with my metaphor. Lately I find myself saying nice things to my husband’s station wagon when I walk past it in the driveway, words of appreciation for the way that it safely gets him to work, words of apology for taking it for granting and not thinking of it fondly as I drive my sportier sedan. You might think that I’m angry, resentful, sullen… but I’m not. What I am is grateful.
I’m grateful to you for giving me some perspective on how I’ve made my husband feel throughout the years as I’ve discovered new relationships and connections. I know that you don’t do it on purpose; I know it isn’t that you don’t love me and appreciate what we have. I think it’s partially a result of the two of us being in different places in our lives, coupled with the fact that you have appetites I don’t share. I know that you love and appreciate the things that we do share, it’s not that I doubt that, it’s about gaining a sense of what it feels like to be in a relationship that includes a wildcard.
That’s how I think of her. I somewhat know her, although she pushes me away more often than not, and I’m not sure if that makes it easier or more difficult. I think that it definitely feeds the metaphor. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m so sure of who I am and what I have to offer you, maybe it’s the fact that I know she’s so mercurial, but mainly I think it’s that I know how hot things burn between the two of you. That can lead one astray, it can elicit desires that override common sense if you aren’t careful, and I’m afraid that you’re going to get hurt. I’m afraid I’m going to get hurt. I’m afraid that it’s going to scorch the land for miles around and leave many third degree burns in its wake. I’m afraid that she’s thrilling and I’m boring and you’re just humoring me. And even as I write those words I recognize them for what they truly are… my own insecurities.
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