So, the car I drive is almost 20 years old. In a few years, it could legally drink.
But it doesn’t have a few years. I took it in this morning after a suspicious clanking noise roused my attention, and it turns out the alternator has a terminal prognosis: three to six months before it bites the dust.
And rather than pouring more money into my 2000 Chevy Blazer, I’ve decided to buy a new (read: used) car.
Immediately, the fears rush in. Am I making the right call? Am I being smart about this? Can I afford it? Should I keep saving up for a few more months?
My mind whirs. My shoulders creep up toward my ears. There’s a steady pressure building in the center of my forehead.
I’m terrified to make a decision because of the what ifs attacking me.
I’m afraid to make a mistake and I don’t trust my own judgment.
I’ve always hated making decisions, but it’s only been in the past few months I’ve realized it’s because I listen more attentively to my irrational fears than to my own voice.
I’m so scared of scraping my knee, I refuse to get on the bike. But what kind of a life is that? A lame one.
Everyone makes decisions, and everyone makes bad decisions. It’s a fact of life I have to accept. In spite of my best intentions, I will make a stupid decision. I’ll mess things up. I’ll get it wrong.
But I won’t die. (Probably.) I won’t ruin my life. (Hopefully.) Most people make terrible decisions and survive. They get up off the asphalt, wincing, and get back on the bike. It’s the only way to keep going.
So I’m going to try my best this week to get on the stupid bike and start pedaling. Because I’ve got this.
And if I don’t? Well, that’s what Band-Aids are for.