Poor Ol’ Dad came over yesterday to bemoan the terrible decrepitness of my poor car. Now, I know my car is getting on in years (it’s a 2002) but it’s A) still running and B) not as bad as Pearl’s! And I’m what you might call “hard on cars” — I drove my previous (14-year-old) car until the Blue Book value went up and down depending on how much gas was in it! Like, I go to pay my property tax and THEY LAUGH AT ME because it’s like $12.
So, my point is, I KNOW the car is not long for this world, but you know what? I can’t fix that. All I can do is start socking a little money away for the inevitable car payments to come in my future. So why worry?
This is the basis for what I’m trying to make my new personal motto: “Can’t Fix It? Fuck It.” What I’m trying to do is not wig out about things over which I have no control, because you know what that gets you? An 11-day stay in Club Hospital Bed. I’m not saying I won’t PREPARE for things (have we met?), I’m just not going to sit and worry myself into a frazzle over shit I can really do nothing about.
My very dear therapist says part of my problem is that I act like someone with PTSD except I don’t have any TS to be Post of. So that constant vigilance is what’s making me nuts. My early New Year’s Resolution, therefore, is to LET. SHIT. GO. Be ready, not crazy. We’ll see how she flies.