Grace to Accept

This summer at a boat ramp along the Umpqua River, my friend Jon offered assistance. "Hey, Ang, need a hand?"  I was pumping up my kayak, something of an endeavor in the 90 degree swelter but worth the work given the sweet reward of lounging in it through Sunburn Alley all afternoon.

"Oh, nah.  Thanks, though.  I - "
"...I can do it." He'd finished my sentence.  Turning to my mom, who nearby slathered my son in SPF 750, he chided, "All week, any time I've offered help, she's replied, "Oh, thanks, I can do it."

I rolled my eyes between pumps.  A chivalrous offer, but, really, I did have the task easily in hand.

But Jon, who happens to have his PhD, had perhaps accurately diagnosed a condition from which I've long suffered.  Icandoitallitus.

Couldn't say how I contracted it.  Maybe it all started in college (particularly during my women's studies courses) when I decided I could open my own doors, thank you very much.  Or during new-parenthood when I developed a talent for dancing hollering baby, stroller, diaper bag, purse, and seven bags of groceries across a giant parking lot through a maze of traffic during a thunderstorm without losing my balance or sense of humor.  Or when I purchased a "starter home" and decided to handle as many of the fixer projects as possible on my own.  Who knows when it started.  But, I do know somewhere along the line I decided I could do anything I set my mind on. Icandoitallitus.

Unfortunately, my case is fairly severe.  For instance, last summer I conducted a move from one abode to a new one entirely on my own.  But, since I had no furniture to actually move, that point is a lot less impressive than the fact that I single handedly built all of the furnishings at my new address.  Imagine a 5'4'' woman hauling 100 pound boxes up stairs and erecting bookcases, bedframes, and desks into the wee hours of several August nights, squinting through bleary eyes at IKEA assembly instructions forbidding herself to have that drink of water/bathroom break/snack until the last bolt was secured.  A sorry sight, especially considering the numerous offers of help from friends, family, co-workers, and my new neighbors.  "Oh, I can do it.  Thanks, though."

Regardless the challenge, "I can do it" has been my anthem.

Many long years of icandoitallitus have made accepting assistance, even in times of need, akin to, oh, I dunno, learning to swim the "old-fashioned way" where your school of hard knocks uncle throws you off a dock and harps, "Well, you'll either learn to swim or drown!" while you gasp and thrash, scared, embarrassed, and wishing like hell you'd not even gotten out of the car in the first place.  

Which is exactly how I've felt these last couple weeks.  I absolutely HATE being so vulnerable as to need help.  Damn, icandoitallitus.

A while back my loving boyfriend smuggled a Costco run into my pantry.  Which is to say, while I was busy with something else, he stocked my kitchen.  Each time I opened a cupboard for the next ten days or so, I discovered a new surprise...an army of rice milk cartons waiting on the bottom shelf,  a behemoth bottle of olive oil and pasta in every shape ever created crowding the baking supplies,  almond butter standing ready in the fridge, a plethora of Annie's mac and cheese preparing for the occasion of the next quick lunch or dinner.  I wonder if folks stocked up like this for Y2K?  I'm ready for Arctic Blast 2010!

Had he asked, "Babe, you need me to grab some groceries for you?"  I'd have answered with a, "No, thanks,  I can do it."

But, he didn't.  Which goes to show how well he knows me.  And, how stubborn I can be.

Instead, he took charge "tough-love therapy-style" in a bold gesture that silently retorted, "Maybe you can, but you don't have to," to my usual, "I can do it."  His assistance has insured I'll stay within a meager food budget this month.  I'm feeling the love, one carton of rice milk at a time.

My parents have stepped in as well.

Mom must have shared my blog with my dad last week, for on Saturday afternoon I got a call from him that started, "Angie, you know me.  I like to have everything taken care of..."  (His tone and wording made me fear the worst...What the heck could be so important that this usually happy-go-lucky guy would begin all "I like to have everything taken care of..."?)  I braced myself.

"Have you already listed your car on Craigslist?  Well, it doesn't matter if you have."  (I heard my mom say something to him in the background.)  "How much is your car payment?"

"What?  Dad, are you okay?"

"We don't want you to sell your car.  It's a different economy.  The "cash for clunkers" has really changed the used car market.  You're not going to find a good used car that's any better than yours.  I mean, is yours okay?  It works, right?"

"Yeah, Dad, it works fine, I just need to get rid of my monthly payment."

"Well, your mom and I would like to pay it.  No, I didn't mean that.  Your mom and I are GOING to take care of your payment.  Don't sell your car. What do you think you could replace it with? Something with unreliable brakes and no airbags?  Keep your car.  We'll help you."

I was unable to speak.  First I felt relief that the call wasn't about the dwindling health of a family member.  Then I was pissed that my parents were TELLING me what they were going to do.  I mean, I'm an adult, right?  I'm a parent myself, right?  Can they still legitimately pull rank?  Humph!  Then I was embarrassed that my retired parents were compelled to bail out their daughter, a working professional/college graduate/person who's lived on her own pretty much since moving to college.  Really, Angela?  Has it come to this?  Fouled up your money so much that your parents have to help?

"Dad, thank you, but I don't need the help.  It's okay.  I can do it.  I'm planning to sell the car.  Bluebook says I'll make at least two grand on it.  I'm looking at VW Bugs.  I can get a decent one for that.  Then I won't have a payment and I can devote those dollars to paying down consumer debt."

"Angie," (no one but my folks call me Angie) "A BUG?  Do you know anything about the affect of front impact on those things?  No airbags.  They break all the time..." He kept going. I was having trouble breathing.  Jeff had glanced up from his reading in concern more than a few times.

"...Listen...hold on, your mom's telling me something...Yes.  Listen, Angie, we're putting a check in the mail."

Overwhelmed, I could neither accepted or decline their offer/demand.  How can one swallow her pride so quickly?

Because the world spins this way, the next day I had the opportunity to test-drive a 1972 Super Beetle.  (Jeff and I had looked up all manner of Beetles on Craigslist and even visited some pro sites to learn the distinctions between Beetles and Super Beetles.  I felt so educated!)  If I was serious about purchasing one of those cutie pies, prudence dictated that I would at least get behind the wheel first.

The seller is a local preacher.  Somehow that made me feel better about going to check it out, despite my dad's admonishments. Zane was my co-pilot.

Leo the Preacher handed me the key.  I asked, "Is there anything we need to know?"

"Nope.  It's a 37 year old car.  It'll tell you everything up front."  He left us in the driveway.

Getting in was our first challenge.  The doors didn't exactly spring open when we pulled on the handle.  Indeed, we had to use real muscle to open them.

"Part of the fun, right, Zane?"  He giggled and climbed in.

Then we reached for our seatbelts.  Hmm...not exactly the mechanized, automatically retracting kind our Jetta has.  Faint memories played reminding me, "Angie, this is how all cars were when you were small..." After some wrestling, we were clicked in.

Excited, I wondered if adjusting the seat (the cushion of which sagged lopsidedly toward the door positioning me just a few inches off the floor of the cab) was really necessary?  I slid it forward only to feel it slide rapidly backward several times before deciding, no, I could just prop myself upon the edge.

Adjusted the mirror.

Inserted the key and turned it.

Deafening noise! Lurch, lurch! Crash!

We'd rammed in to Preacher Leo's garage.

The combination of the seat and neglecting to push in the clutch completely had resulted in a nice test of the car's bumper.  It was totally fine.  What excellent automotive design!  Front impact stats my ass, Dad!  It was totally fine!  Preacher Leo's garage door frame was...er...dented?

I looked at Zane.  He looked at me.  Was his face ashen?

I wrestled out of the car in hopes of beckoning the Preacher.  Wouldn't he have heard the impact?  I knocked on his door.  He didn't answer.  All I could think was , "Woe, though we walk in the valley of death..."

Returning to the car Zane calmly asked, "Hey, Mom?  Does this have airbags?"  I laughed.  He didn't think it was funny.

Second round, I placed my foot on the clutch but was unable to get the car to idle in first.  THIS made Preacher Leo AND his son come out to marvel at the woman who had broken their house and made their car screech so hideously.  Leo had to show me how to get the car in reverse...and how to adjust the seat.  (The stick shift had no gear markings or indicator on the handle!)

E V E N T U A L L Y, I maneuvered that purple, stinky, dusty, beast away from the garage and we tooled loudly through the neighborhood.  I'm sure I had a grin on my face the entire time.  We had a blast!  How fun to discover the "features" of the interior.

"Mom!  Look!  Roll down windows!"
"Ooooo!"  I'd have tried mine too, but I feared prying my hands from the wheel may have resulted in another bumper test.

Prior to her reversal in discretion about me sellign my car, Mom had emailed a detailed list of attributes to scan for in a used car.  (She's something of a motorhead having been a street racer in Oakland, California back in the day.  She use to change the oil and shocks in her Austin Healey Sprite, I think the story goes.)  Dutiful daughter, we pulled our potential purchase over and opened the trunk to checkout the hoses and wires.  I did the undercarriage inspection just as she'd specified.  I'm sure Mom would have known what she was looking at.  Neither Zane nor I did.  But, we were proud of ourselves for having found the engine.

Leo the Preacher was right.  The car did tell me everything I needed to know.  She told me two things...First, she didn't want me around.  Second, my dad was right.

The Preacher refused compensation for the facia board of his garage.  No hard sale from him.  Maybe he would have felt uncomfortably responsible for the fate of the single mom and her cute kid? Or,  perhaps he just wanted me to get the hell away from his car and house that afternoon?   Either way, Zane and I departed, thankful for the adventure...and the relative luxury of our 2002 Jetta.  Though I've never had need for its airbags, I felt a wave of gratefulness for their presence.  Perhaps Zane did too.

Two days passed before an envelope with my mom's handwriting appeared in the mailbox.  The enclosed card read, "Zane deserves a safe car.  And so do you!"

Argh!  "I can do this on my own!" I spat at the card.
 But it politely retorted, "I know, but you don't have to."

I don't want anyone to feel or be responsible for me.  Especially, I don't want anyone to be responsible for the mess I've made with money.

There's a lot more that could be said here, the internal processes, the attempts at developing an argument sensible enough to guiltlessly deny their gesture of support.  But, what it comes down to is gratitude.  I'm so flippin' grateful.  How many people face the same kinds of financial struggles that I do?  How do they make it if they don't have the support that Zane and I do?  How would I make it without Jeff and my parents?

This week, I feel richer than I ever have.  I'm learning the grace to accept help -  daily tonic against icandoitiallitus.