,When I glance at the speedometer again, I see another message has taken its place. A red message. I have a feeling I do not like red messages.
“It’s reassuring you haven’t disappeared” my friend texts.
I make a face at my device because that’s not a very suitable response to “What’s up?” And it’s also sort of false because I have disappeared beneath tasks that are supposed to get done in this kingdom of multitasking. But my womanhood fails me and I’m left unloading trays of eggshell-dotted cookies from the oven and forgetting about dear old friends.
The situation worsens after our recent move. Suddenly there are more daily activities involving another thing that fails me: decisions. And then there’s an entirely different category called New People to Meet. That category has a lot of names in it. Disappearing text messages from old friends turn into snarky “Which cave are you hiding in?” responses.
I am in the midst of sorting through this when our Toyota Camry begins vibrating violently on the highway. It’s time for a new car and this is one decision I want nothing to do with. My husband makes the pick and one blustery Sunday afternoon a sleek black beauty glides up the driveway.
I get acquainted with the beast named Nissan Rogue when I need to be in New Jersey for the day. That old Toyota Camry was great for the streets of Brooklyn; its scratches and scuffs worn like prized war medals. It wasn’t the best fit for suburbia or for a girl with anxieties of cars breaking down on endless stretches of highway.
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