Washington State vehicle license plate, attached to a GMC Yukon. I don’t know the year of any vehicle model I haven’t personally owned, but it’s fairly recent. If you know how (I don’t) you can probably check some official record and find it without too much trouble.

I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or woman driving. It could have been a big blue frog for all I know. When it was close enough to see the driver, I was busy keeping out of the way and couldn’t take time to stare. I don’t know the names of auto colors either — this one was a slightly metallic but not sparkly, yellowish beige sort of pseudo-neutral, one of those colors that starts to blend into the road surface at any distance greater than a city block or when weather conditions encourage poor visibility.

It’s foggy this morning. Not the soak-everything clinging kind of fog, but the billowy erratic kind with inexplicable clear patches that fool the unaware and the willfully stupid into thinking that headlights aren’t necessary. “I can see just fine. Why do I need lights?” Sheesh.

I first became aware of the Yukon (and potential big blue frog) when it suddenly appeared in the “right turn only” lane next to me, slipping sideways into the barely-long-enough space ahead of me and behind a blue sedan of some kind (maybe a Toyota–they seem to be everywhere these days). It then whipped back to the main lane at a two-lane “left turn on green arrow” light and scooted around, ahead of, and in front of the blue sedan, which was turning left from the right-side left turn lane.(Does that make sense? I hope so, since I haven’t a clue of how else to explain it without trying to draw a map, which I’m not sure I can do here and now.) The Yukon disappeared into the fog on the winding uphill road ahead. It’s easy to disappear when your vehicle is one of those road-mimicking colors, the fog is flowing thick and thin, the road has multiple curves and hills, and you don’t use headlights or turn signals. Come to think of it, I never saw any brake lights, either.

The blue sedan turned into a housing development and it wasn’t long before I was again looking at the back of that same Yukon. It was fidgeting back and forth, trying to find a chance to go around yet another vehicle by passing on the right. Still no lights–and no turn signals when the chance to get around came along. That car turned off a couple hundred yards later and there I was AGAIN, watching the Yukon do some odd automotive rendition of the potty dance. (See why I remembered the license plate number?) At the last moment, it swerved from the main lane into the left turn lane–no turn signals, no brake lights–and turned off onto one of the narrow roads that slither over the sides of the hills in this area.

I continued home–lights on, using brakes and turn signals when appropriate–in my almost-17-years-old compact. It’s not powerful or pretty or classy, it just keeps running, albeit not as smoothly as it used to. It doesn’t quite get the mileage it used to, but it has a lot of miles on it. I’m pretty sure it does get better mileage than an hyper-thyroidal luxury SUV with a lead-footed nitwit behind the wheel.

How do people afford those things, anyway? For the most part, they cost more than I make in an entire year (and then some), the gas mileage pretty much sucks, and I would bet an antenna ball that the insurance is somewhere between “Pricey!” and “Faint when you see the premium.” Really, I’m not bitter, just a bit peeved. I follow the rules as much as I can and work as hard and as much as I can. It might be nice to have a car with a properly functioning heater. It would be heavenly to have a car with seats that don’t freak my back and cause numb patches down both legs. I guess it just seems unfair to be the one who keeps on doing while other, less worthy (If this be ego, make the most of it!) individuals walk (or drive) all over me.

Fair: a peculiar and abstract concept, possibly unique to humans. There is no evidence of “fairness” in the day-to-day functioning of the natural world. But that’s another topic…

“What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” Repeat continuously and belief may follow.

One of the recent themes in my life seems to be “but not now.” I’m not feeling the financial side of it on a personal level, because I know a large portion of that change is not my doing. There was a time when I could afford an infrequent splurge like dinner out or hobby supplies, but not now. Every cent goes to survival, which costs much more than it used to even though there aren’t as many cents coming in. I didn’t make the larger mess we call the American economic system and I certainly didn’t order up the kind of business climate that has resulted in my barely sufficient paid hours being cut down to the not viable level. I’ve cut almost every non-essential I can and will soon have to cut absolutely everything in a desperate attempt to keep shelter and food as part of my life. And gasoline, since I have to get to work in order to acquire that half-of-what-it-used-to-be paycheck.

It’s like being in a small wooden boat on a river. The oars are a bit small, but sufficient for normal conditions, and they’re the only ones available, so you make do, paddling back and forth as best you can. Then the rain starts, and you have to bail out the boat now and then, which means putting down the oars for a bit, which means drifting off course due to the river’s flow, but you keep at it and still manage to move around pretty much the way you need to. Then the river rises fast, because the rain here is just a bit, but rain further upstream is torrential. Now the current is pushing you downriver and your small oars can’t fight it well enough to reach a riverbank and it’s still raining, so you still have to stop rowing in order to bail. Sooner or later you’ll be pushed right out into the sea…or you’ll hit a bridge or a clump of debris…but whatever the outcome is, as long as you’re trying to row you know any failure won’t be for lack of trying. If you had bigger oars, if you had someone to help you row, if you had a cover to keep the rain off of you and mostly out of the boat, if you just had some help, maybe you could navigate this swollen mass of water to safety. But the oars are small, there’s no help with the rowing, you don’t have an umbrella, and nobody seems to notice your predicament. Failing may be catastrophic for you, but it will be a catastrophe created by many factors, not just by you.

Included in the attempt to navigate this financial mess in the search for a second job, a demeaning and depressing prospect for a middle-aged woman with a limited resume. Past the half-century mark, I am discovering I have limits that I didn’t used to have. Maybe I could work two full-time jobs a decade ago, but not now. Maybe I could haul a small moving truck worth of furniture and boxes all in one day without any help a dozen years ago, but not now. The body won’t cooperate now. Too many years of hard use and indifferent maintenance will wear out a machine, and I’ve been under the gun and under-supported for years.

“What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” Repeat continuously and belief may follow.

I keep trying…by now I should be able to pick up a skyscraper, and that’s definitely not happening, but I keep trying. Like there’s any other choice?

“What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” Repeat continuously and belief may follow.