Not A Ferrari

In 1991 we bought a brand new Ford Taurus Station wagon. It was our first new car purchase. We had been married for ten years. Our family had grown to include three daughters and they had friends, so the station wagon seemed like a good choice. We could fit seven people in the car, all with seat belts. It was a very accommodating and comfortable car.

The winters in Western Michigan are very hard on cars. The salt used on icy roads bites into the finish leaving most cars speckled with rust before they are even paid for. It was not long before our new car fell victim to the damage. Our not so pretty new car never dampened the fun of loading kids into the car for an afternoon of sledding.

By the time we paid off our Taurus the rust had eaten through the bottom panels of the front driver and passenger doors. The engine turned over reliably even on the coldest mornings. The looks had no bearing on teaching two daughters how to drive. It was safe and got them where they were going. When we turned the car over to our oldest girls as “their” car, their eyes were blinded to the rust by the excitement of having their own car to drive.

Our 1991 Ford Taurus never won any races, was never coveted by middle aged men or women, it did not come in custom colors, ours was white, it was no Ferrari that is certain.

Just a few points of clarification: Ferrari minimum cost = $200,000; takes two years to make AFTER you order it; seats two; has fuel pump problems; wins races; is never used to teach someone to drive. Taurus minimum cost =$14,999 in 1991 and $27,110 now; can be driven off the lot on the day of purchase; seats up to seven; has longevity; is a family memory maker.

Where is this going? Pretty dull so far? Now I come to the point.

The other day my husband and I went to his check-up with our family doctor. As we were reviewing a fairly extensive list of medications and chronic health problems my fifty-five-year-old husband started looking pretty frustrated. He always goes back to how he eats right, exercises, was very athletic, had a non-sedentary career, has not smoked in more than 30 years, rarely drinks, and yet he has three of the top 5 leading causes of death for men over fifty-five. “Why?” lays on my husband’s tongue every minute of every day. The doctor finally answered his question.

Doctor: Some people are born Ferraris and some people are born Ford Tauruses. A Ferrari is fast, sleek, nothing wrong under the hood, blemish free, ideal. A Taurus, on the other hand, starts most days, needs yearly maintenance, has limits on speed and beauty, is prone to rust and no one wants to look under the hood. You, my friend, are not a Ferrari. Very few people are. Most people arrive at fifty-five with a few dings and scratches. They have quirks just like the car. Maybe you have to stick a screwdriver under the hood to get it to start, or the windows don’t go all the way down but, over all, it takes you down the road a few more miles.
So my sweet husband is not a Ferrari. So what? I like him just the way he is. Besides, there is only room in our garage for one Ferrari. Wink.

Out With The Old

I can’t even think about goals, organizing, cleaning, weight-loss or any other headline touted by January issues of magazines racked up near the grocery checkout lanes until I attack another nasty little problem.  Many people call it number two,  you will not find it in any headliner. Remember having to raise your hand in school with one finger or two fingers indicating to the teacher not only that you had to use the bathroom, but I guess to also let them in on how long you might be gone? If you don’t remember this, trust me it was a thing. I never, ever wanted to raise two fingers and so began my Poor Poop Performance issues.

PPP happens whenever stressors of one sort or another “dump” into my life. The equation is indirect – high stress=less number two. Many articles about the opposite problem, high stress leading to vomiting and diarrhea are available on the googler. However, the area of constipation in relation to stress has been quite neglected. Someone needs to start the dialogue and so I’m gonna give it a “go.”
My most recent bout with PPP began just before the holidays. Identify with this if you will…

When: Christmas, beginning December 12 and ending December 22.
Where: Various homes of relatives, a hospital, and a car.
What: Wildly different opinions, too much food, and a heart attack.
Who: Six grandparents, five children under the age of eleven, four dogs, three mothers, two fathers and no partridge in the pear tree.

A glowing, candle-lit Hallmark special we are not, but most years we are a pretty decent comedy with just enough tension to build the excitement. This year, however, was off the toilet chain. Several of the kids had snotty noses, which caused one grandmother to sit in the corner with her mouth covered in a hanky. One grandfather, a staunchly, non-college-educated-white-man, and one grandfather, a died-in-the-wool republican, managed to still disagree violently about this year’s election.(I really hate the label n-c-e-w-m, much like I hated soccer mom.) All the adult women who land on varying marks of the liberal measuring stick, also found ways to squabble. The father’s whisked in from work just in time to aggravate the non-sick children issuing edicts of bedtime and threats of no Santa. Amidst all of this family fun, the grandfather married to me decided this would be a good time to have a minor heart attack. He does not confirm any decision on his part, but the previous weeks he had been having some “twinges,” and refused to go get checked out.

Our ten days of Christmas resulted in this grandma missing a daily poop for an equal amount of time. I was fart walking all over the house and hospital. On the eleventh day of Christmas, we returned to our quiet home and I took double the maximum recommended dosage of generic laxative. The twelfth day of Christmas held no relief. This is a serious problem veiled in a funny telling. If you also suffer from PPP you will know that once it hits not much will help, not even the laxative, which I repeated times two. The only thing that will finally give success is to go to the store and get in line. Your stomach will then begin to grip and you will be asked to never use their facilities again. I write this not just as a personal essay but as comfort to those who are afflicted similarly. Sure there are studies, everyone has seen the commercials for IBS with constipation, but no one talks about it. The discussion forum needs to begin. Diarrhea sufferers do not endure in silence; they even have their own theme song…”when you’re sliding into first and your pants begin to burst, that’s diarrhea…” They have cute names, like poo-goo, mudd-butt and even the serious Montezuma’s revenge. We PPP’s have nothing. Until now. The floor is open, the gates have been lifted, take your place in line and just let it go. I did, you can too. Out with the old…Happy New Year!