I spend a lot of time in my car these days.
Not driving. I’ve cut that down to the bare minimum. My near-monthly trips to NY/PA have evaporated, bridesmaid-related travel has come to a close, and my weekend plans are almost exclusively related to staying home and doing homework.
I’m a Folklorist, at least in spirit (since that degree endeavor failed). Liminality is a big thing in the field- it’s that space between spaces, when you’re walking down that aisle at a graduation or your wedding, when you’re waiting to give birth, when you’re not quite in but you haven’t jumped out yet. It’s such a frightening and momentous space to occupy that we’ve developed traditions and rituals to celebrate and ease the transition.
I’ve carved out this liminal space in the driver’s seat of my mint green ’05 Corolla. It is in this seat that I exist between two worlds, the working girl I am from 9-5, and the homemaker I am whenever I’m inside the walls of my apartment. And lately I can’t bring myself to open that car door and ascend the steps to the place I pay to live in because I’m not ready to face that part of the day. I’m not ready to talk to Manbeast, to deal with the cats, to be faced with the household responsibilities that fall on my shoulders, to do homework.
And in my car, in that liminal space, I can’t. I can’t do dishes, can’t write a paper, there’s no one to talk to and there parked under our carport are the only ten minutes of the day when I don’t feel stressed and harried and upset.
Is it depression? It damn well could be, but if it is it feels so differently from the other bouts I’ve experienced that I cannot identify it. All I know anymore is that life in my car is so much easier to handle then life outside of my car.