My parent’s purchased a 1979 Ford Thunderbird brand, spanking new, two years, before I was born. It was candy-apple red with snow-white leather interior, and the frame was longer than a night in jail.
My mom loved the Thunderbird, and it suited her so well, all leather and chrome. My parents kept the car for years, and I practically grew up in the car. I didn’t love the car itself, but I did love where it could take me.
Back in those days, children of my age, were not restrained in car seats or confined by seat belts. My brother was older, so he got the coveted privilege of sitting up front with my mother. Somehow riding up front made you cooler and more mature. I didn’t mind sitting in back. I would scoot from side to side, looking all around, at the world we passed by; houses, mountains, hills, rolling pastures and the occasional Moo Cow. My eyes, scanning from side to side, and the occasional front to back, taking it all in. I never wanted to look straight ahead at the perfectly striped road before us. It was too mundane and offered so little. No, I needed to see more, more of what the world held, and not another car or black asphalt.
Then, every time, halfway through the car ride, my stomach would start to ache and the car would begin to spin. I was no longer a backseat passenger of a Ford Thunderbird, but a carnival goer strapped to the tilt-a-whirl. Mom would tell me to lay down. She would roll the windows down or crank up the A/C, but it would always be too late. My lunch would rise to my throat, and spew from my mouth, at lightening speed, coating the interior. Unfortunately, for my Mother and the Thunderbird, I wasn’t coordinated enough to hurl out the window, and my mom wasn’t quick enough to pull over on the side of the road in time. Eventually, I became quite proficient in hurling into paper bags or towels, but it was too late for the back seat. It had already been stained a light pink, no longer a glistening snow-white.
I hated getting car sick, but I couldn’t give up my car rides, and I couldn’t follow my Mom’s advice.
“Tammy, if you would only look, straight ahead, and not all around, I promise you, you would not get sick.”
Only if I had listened to my mother, but I couldn’t do it. I could not stop looking at everything around me, and not what laid directly in front of me.
Luckily, I outgrew, the whole motion sickness thing, for the most part. From time to time, I still get car sick, and I still could not ride the tilt-a-whirl without puking. Yet, I still get sick from my surroundings, but it’s not from the view of a 1979 Ford Thunderbird. No, my sickness is from a very old disease, called Envy.
It is so easy for me to look around and get down. I look at some of my friend’s and I think, why couldn’t I be pretty like them? I look at their houses and I think, Why couldn’t I have a house like theirs? Why couldn’t my children be as well-behaved as The Duggers? Why couldn’t I wrHite like this blogger or this Author? Why couldn’t I have a voice like Carrie Underwood’s or a tush like Jennifer Lopez’s? Why? Why?
I get so tied up in looking around, that I get down, and defeated. My vision is blurry, and I have trouble seeing what’s directly in front of me; all my, many, many, blessings that are too abundant to count, and the path that’s paved just for me. The one, that only I, can travel.
I just simply need to heed my mother’s advice, from all those years ago, “Get your eyes of your surroundings everyone else and focus on what’s in front of you.”
otherwise, you will be car sick, unhappy, and your road will go untraveled. A destination never achieved.
Loved your analogy. The comparison of traveling down the road of life to the car ride was great. What a great story! (spelling check: you may want to change stripped road to striped road)
Thanks for the wonderful comment and the spelling correction! I recently read 50 shades of grey and my brain is still in the gutters, hence stripped vs striped! I would have never corrected it, so thank u very much!
Excellent read! Thank you.
I’m glad u liked it =). Thanks for reading!
The whole concept of keeping up with the Jones’ really hit home for me, several months ago. My kid’s play date came over and started complaining to his mom, about how small our house was. I felt sorry for my son and my wife, and felt inadequate as a provider
Thats a good advice from your mother, but its so difficult when its my wife and kids thats gotta deal with the “subpar” living condition.
Carry Underwoods is AMAZING! That was the last time my wife and I followed American Idol. I couldn’t believe Fantasia won that contest…lol
Hey, Chris! I understand we’re you’re coming from. I have lived in places that some people would consider “sub par” and I have struggled with the “keeping up with the Jone’s” complex for far too long. I feel so vain talking about this because just by living in America we have it so much better then two thirds of the world’s population, but I think we all deal with this on some level from time to time. For me, in my group of friends from middle school on, I was probably the poorest. My father is a retired coal miner and my mother is a registered nurse. They practically worked themselves to death to provide for us, and they did. I got everything I needed but not everything I wanted. My friends usually had both when it came to material objects, but I know this is going to sound terribly cliche, but I had something they didn’t. There was not, and still isn’t, a day in my life that goes by without me feeling an enormous amount of love from my parents. It wasn’t the case for my friends. I saw and heard things at their homes that never would have happened at mine. To me, those things were far more appalling than my small home.
I do not feel sorry for your wife and son. From what I have read from your blog, you are an amazing husband and father. You love them tremendously, and that’s what your son will remember most when he gets older. Memories will last forever, houses will not.
As far as feeling sorry for someone in your comment, it would be your son’s friend. What a spoiled little boy! If he wants to talk sizes, I imagine his heart is the size of a walnut and I hope his mother provided ample punishment. Someday the world will smack him across the face and I hope he has to live in a small house. Not out of spite, but because that’s where love usually grows the best. Sounds like he could use a little…
oh wow you nailed everything on the head! You know exactly what I’m talking about. And you make an excellent point about the fact we should ALL feel so grateful just by being able to live in America.
You must be one of those secret stealth readers of my blog, I did not know you read any of my crap…lol. Speaking of which, thanks for your feeback into my 10yr anniversary dilema. The right decision is the obvious decision, and she will just have to forgive me in the future. I think I’ll blog about it in the futre because my plan is pretty elaborate, and it involves getting series of brownie points, consequtively…hehehe
I don’t hold any grudge against that kid who made that comment or his mom who did seem embarrased by it, its not their fault for having so much more wealth. And in some sense I do feel bad for them because almost every house they visit will feel inadequate. I do ask my wife why she has to go around and befriend, what seems, to be the richest families of my kid’s classes. She says it wasn’t her choice, those kids are all best friends with each other and mothers just get stuck in the middle. This also puts my wife at an awkward situation because she doesn’t feel comfortable inviting these mom’s over to our house, she is always going to their house or some outside play locations. Dang kid politics