By MARIEL HOWSEPIAN digs black coffee, fairy tales and a man in coveralls. She lives in Santa Monica and
LAST THURSDAY, DURING A DOWNpour, my drummer husband drove my sporty little car to the recording studio. Why not? I wasn’t using my car. I was already in my pajamas, on the couch cupping a mug of hot cocoa and watching a rerun of “Grey’s Anatomy.” A tornado warning crawled across the bottom of the TV.
My husband often takes my car to the studio. He could rattle there in his beat-up van, but my car is more comfortable, more stylish. A couple of years ago, I bought the car from my friend Nancy. The only way Nancy could have babied the car more is if she had been able to rock it to sleep in her arms.
After “Grey’s Anatomy,” I went to bed knowing that, a couple of hours later, my husband would inevitably rouse me from REM sleep. He would say, “Babe, I love you. I’m home.” He would close the bedroom door and I would hear him ripping open a Lean Cuisine pepperoni pizza, the beep of microwave buttons, and Letterman’s studio audience laughing.
At 12:30 a.m., my husband got home, said, “Babe, I love you,” and then, “I wrecked your car.”
He was kidding, right? When someone you love gets into a car accident, the first thought you’re supposed to have is: Is my loved one okay? But when they walk in just fine, that question is answered, so you want to know how bad the car is damaged, that it was the other driver’s fault, and that he was insured.
And then you want to know why your husband is waking you up to tell you that you have no car, when nothing you can do will change the situation.
I took two Benadryl and cried myself to sleep.
The next morning, I saw my car. Visualize a pug’s smashed-in face. My comfortable, stylish, babied car is totaled.
I’m trying to accept that a car is just a thing. People survived for thousands of years without cars. I can get most places on foot, or bike, or bus. My husband and I teach at the same school, so I don’t need a car to get to and from work. If I want to go out of town, I can get a rental.
If I don’t need my car, what else do I not need?
I became the tornado. I don’t need my orange sarong, or my magic scarf, or my hat that makes me look like Colonel Mustard. I threw them into a pile.
At least once a year, my life makes me a little claustrophobic. I think about how easy it would be to pack a single bag and run off to anywhere else.
I don’t need seven black sweaters, or capri pants in every color.
Why didn’t I donate all of this stuff to a thrift store last year? I could have used the donation as a tax deduction. Oh well. There’s always next year.
So how much is an orange sarong worth? According to Goodwill’s Web site: $2. The site lists the estimated values of men’s, women’s, and children’s clothing, as well as housewares, appliances, computers, sporting goods, and furniture.
Why do I still have a floor-length black evening dress that I wore once to the opera eight years ago?
When cleaning out one’s closet, the rule is: If you haven’t worn it in a year, get rid of it. A better rule is: If you haven’t worn it in six months, and you don’t foresee wearing it in the next six months, let it go.
Pink poncho that was purchased during the poncho craze a couple years ago, I free you.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on February 1, 2008. Read the original PDF.