Of Hummers and Hybrids

America is an amazing place.

In what other country can you find strong markets for both

The Hummer

AND hybrids?

I did some research tonight, and I found out the following information:

MPG:

Hummer Turbo (diesel) – 14.2/10.5

Hummer Non-Turbo (diesel) – 13.2/10.0

Hummer Gas – 6.8/3.8

Toyota Camry hybrid – 40.0/38.0

What's wrong with this picture??? How do we justify the need for two such extremes? The obvious choice for any sane person is the hybrid. Better gas mileage, better for the environment, attractive without shoving its presence in your face, and fits into more parking spots.

Hummers are showmobiles. They serve no purpose other than to scream, "I'M SO FUCKING INSECURE THAT I NEED THIS BIG ASS VEHICLE TO PROVE JUST HOW FUCKING COOL I WISH I WERE! Oh, and I have an assload of money, too. Just gassing this Big Dog up every week costs more than you grossed last year, and the insurance? Fuggetaboutit. And the price of the new annex we had to add just to house the damn thing? You don't even want to know! (but I'll "discretely" let it slip after I've had a few drinks to use as an excuse)."

And who the fuck needs a HUMMER LIMO???

I can imagine the fun now. The 20 mile trip to the prom will come with three gas station stops. The groom will be late to the wedding because there was traffic on the highway and the limo couldn't squeeze past the other cars to get off at the next exit. Babies will be born in them. People will die in them. And don't think the good people at Hummer are unaware of this. They have crafted a partnership with the American Red Cross. Even if you are not a religious person you will recognize that such a union had to be forged in Hell.

Ranting aside, the Hummer/hybrid comparison was actually intended to be a metaphor for my own life right now. On one hand, I live a very comfortable lifestyle playing with pretty pictures all day. Sometimes the hours are long and the interactions arduous, but for the most part, I make a lot of money for a bullshit job I can do in my sleep. I get to wear jeans and sneakers to work. I like most of the people I work with. I really like some of the people I work with. On the days I feel like being quiet, no one gives me grief. On the days I feel like being boisterous, there is always someone who will be boisterous right along with me. I can hang with people who want to discuss philosophy, race relations, world politics and/or cartoons. When I have to work late, I get to demand to be fed and sent home via car service. All in all, it's a pretty good gig. The subject matter bores the snot out of me, but what are you going to do?

On the other hand, I make nowhere near what, as a total marketable asset, I am worth. I hate even telling people that I'm a tax attorney because the first question 99% of them ask is "Then why are you doing graphics?" or "Why aren't you practicing?" The answer is both simple and complex, and most of the time I'm not even interested enough in the person to give a real explanation. At this point I've distilled it down to "been away from tax too long working on advanced degree at NYU will be returning to the law when I graduate".

This is entirely true. It does not, however, add the reality of my hopes and dreams and fears. It doesn't address my insecurities at not being as good as I once was. It doesn't address my fear that I will end up trapped in a field that it turns out I really don't like. It doesn't address my hopes that once I return to my chosen career that some of the issues that weigh heavy on my mind will at least ease, if not dissipate altogether. It definitely doesn't address the annoyance I will feel once I get a high-heels and pantyhose job and people start in with the commentary..."Oh, I'm SO glad you became a lawyer again. I didn't want to say anything before, but I thought a lot less of you when you were wasting your talent and education playing with pretty pictures!" and "Well, now that you're practicing, you can pick up the tab because you're making all that lawyer money. And can I borrow a few bucks? I know you're loaded."

After all, everyone knows that lawyers are rich. All of them. Every single last attorney on the face of the Earth is rich.

And they all drive Hummers to prove it.

I just want to be happy. If I can be happy driving a hybrid, why do I HAVE to drive a Hummer? Why do I let the voices of people who I'm not sleeping with and who are not paying my bills get inside my head and make me question who I am? Does it really make me less of a person because I’m not pulling down a quarter of a million annually? Does it matter that I didn’t become a partner at some overpriced firm by the time I turned 35? Does it matter that I don’t have a husband or children OR a career?

No, of course it doesn’t. In a hundred years we’ll all be dead and NONE OF THIS WILL MATTER.

But it isn’t a hundred years from now. It’s now. And I feel inadequate, even though I have nothing to be ashamed of. By no stretch of the imagination am I an angel, but I try very hard to be a decent human being. I go out of my way to be thoughtful and considerate. I spend a good deal of time trying to see things from different perspectives. I try not to be seriously judgmental (riffing on people walking by on the street that I don’t know and will never see again doesn’t count). I am the best friend possible to those I care for, and I avoid people who I don’t vibe with. I think drama for the sake of drama is overrated. I’m kind to small children and animals. I call my mother. I pay my own way. I love to learn. I laugh, I cry and I console.

So why am I agonizing over things that shouldn’t matter? Is it because I was raised in a culture that defines itself by Hummers as much as it does by hybrids? I always viewed myself as an independent thinker. I always thought all this materiality and love of the Almighty Dollar was bullshit. I thought that right up until I woke up one day and I wasn’t 29 anymore. Or 30. Or 35. All that time I’d always had stretching out in front of me was suddenly halfway gone. The road behind me is starting to get longer than the road ahead. The insane college buds who made an art form out of drinking too much are now licensed professionals with children and gigantic mortgages. The chronically undateable are getting married. The chronically unhireable are running successful businesses. The chronically useless now have Blackberrys and personal assistants and “can’t talk now – places to be!”

But we’ll get together soon, pal. You know we’ll have a good time then.

I’m no longer the youngest person in the room. I’m constantly proffering valuable and meaningful advice to kids who weren’t even born when I graduated from high school.

Somefuckingwhere along the line I got older. But I never intended to grow up. And I guess maybe I was successful in that regard. Maybe too successful. I still feel like I have all the time in the world to figure out what I want to do, where I want to be, what will help me to help myself find the happiness I so desperately crave. But I don’t have all that time anymore. I got distracted by something shiny and by the time I turned around, I’d misplaced five years of my life. (I really have to stop getting distracted by shiny things.)

I was remotely hopeful that I might glean some new insight or have a great epiphany by writing all this out instead of just doing the mental gymnastics in my head (by remote I mean “Michael Jordan COULD walk down the street, see me and fall desperately in love!” Feel free to substitute David P. for I like Mike, if you prefer…the likelihood is roughly equal.), but alas and alack, no such good fortune has chosen to rain down upon me tonight.

Nonetheless, I feel somewhat less encumbered. And I thank you, dear readers, for allowing me to unburden my troubles with you. As they say, “Happiness shared is happiness doubled…misery shared is misery halved.”

I admit it, I suck

I tried.

I really really really tried.

I even got to the point of saying, "Yes, I want to end our sessions" when she looked at me (somewhat startled) and said , "Are you saying you don't want to continue our work?"
But somehow I ended up agreeing to see her in two weeks.

Is there something endemic in human nature that prohibits one from taking one's own advice? Had anyone I know related the tale of the stalker therapist to me, I would have steadfastly have advised, "Dump her."

But then, I shouldn't really be surprised by my behavior. As the last 6 months or so have taught me, I'm sticking around longer than I should in a number of "relationships" (see, e.g., The Kitten and David P.) So is this something I need to work on with my therapist?

Oh, the irony.

Judge me not too harshly, for I am only human and imperfect.

But look out next time...!