Taking Myself Out
Hey there and hola!
One of the most challenging things for me is to feel as comfortable outside as I do at home. Obviously I know, of course, it’s not always wise to isolate myself like that either. What I mean is, I’d love to take myself out on a date.
At home, with my two chihuahuas curled beside me, I feel a kind of effortless acceptance. They don’t need convincing to stay close. They just want to be with me. That kind of unconditional presence has been missing since my husband fell ill. His mind left me before his body did, and when he passed away, I was left with a hollow space where he had once been. He was my connection to the world and to myself, in both the good and the not-so-good times. In those early months, I felt completely abandoned. That feeling still lingers, but it’s not as strong as it used to be. Slowly, I’ve shifted from asking what happened to me, to asking what I’m doing to remake my life.
Yet, one thing I still struggle with is stepping outside. Maybe it’s because, growing up, my life was always shifting from one country, then another. I became a bit used to being an outsider. And now, as a single older woman without family nearby, I still feel like an outsider but in a different way. Now I carry the unsettling awareness that if something bad were to happen to me, no one would know to come take care of my dogs. My world has narrowed, and though I’m learning to navigate the small aggressions of daily life, being outside still feels like I’m moving through a space that isn’t entirely mine.
The other day, I was forced to leave the house when my little yellow Fit needed a tire valve replaced. The incident that led to it was simple enough. Melvin, my gardener’s son, broke it while washing my car. Then he lied about it. After he left, I had to pay my housekeeper’s husband to swap the tire out so I could take it to the repair shop. That’s when things started to feel off at the shop, Dr. Car, y‘know, those places notorious for their fanciful overcharges. This time, though, I was in for a lesson in basic reality, as somehow it was assumed I couldn’t figure things out for myself.
The man at the shop decided he needed to teach me a lesson. El muchacho did nothing wrong, he told me, his voice heavy with certainty and light on evidence. He wasn’t there when Melvin broke the valve. He didn’t see me standing there, looking at my flat tire, realizing I had to rearrange my day to fix something I hadn’t caused. But somehow, this stranger felt entitled to correct my reality. It was an accident, the strange small-minded man insisted. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. What I knew for sure was that I was the one left to deal with the consequences.
As they say all the way back to my first home, sometimes you’ve got to deal with the mud before you can see the stars. I didn’t yell at Melvin. I even paid him for the car wash. But I decided my gardener would skip a week of mowing. That seemed like a fair way to recoup the cost of fixing the tire. I drove out of the repair shop without leaving a tip.
The good and the not-so-good world outside my home, I’m learning, is becoming part of my new identity. I am not simply someone without a spouse. I am someone learning to claim my place in a world that isn’t always kind, but still mine to navigate.
And the good thing? My dogs know nothing about this kind of meanness. They only know that I am theirs, and they are mine.
One day soon, I’ll take myself out for coffee. That will be my next step toward feeling more at home with myself, not just inside these walls, but out in the world.