The Silver Bullet

So, I'll admit it: lately, I've been on the verge of being overwhelmed. Really. It's a shock to me, too. I'm often whelmed - and I like it, you know? It's good to be whelmed - it's nice. It is not good to be overwhelmed, however. It's not healthy.

So, the other day, in an effort to get out of the house and just ... do something with an immediate result (I guess?), I decided that I needed to go to Office Depot to get some binder clips. You know those little black things with the silver feet that work like super paper clips or reusable staples? Yeah, those. How often have you bought those, let alone actually planned a trip to buy them? This is how close to being overwhelmed I was.

My dad was in the driveway as I walked to the car and, rather impulsively, I invited him to come with me: I would take this opportunity to confide in the old man and partake of his experience-informed advice and wisdom. After a few minutes in the car my dad asked me how school was going.

"You know, dad, for the first time, this semester is really killing me. Trying to juggle applying for graduate programs with some of the most difficult undergraduate classes I've ever had is just exhausting. I don't think I've ever been so close to feeling overwhelmed."

I waited for him to pronounce the words that would solve my problem and set me free.

"Well," he said, and I sensed that he was really digging deep for what was about to come, "I was watching this show earlier..."

This was classic Dad, and I was excited. This is the man, after all, who told me I'd know I was in love when I knew what the Beatles' song "Here, There, and Everywhere" meant. (He was right, incidentally.) What "show," filtered through my dad's unerring and discerning judgement, was about to color my world with ease and release?

"...about these British guys, right? Car companies give them cars and these guys just drive them like madmen and ruin them and destroy them and then give them back to the companies with a list of suggestions for how they can improve them. It was really cool."

I was riveted.

"Anyway, they had this van and they decided to cut the roof off of it and turn it into a convertible, but they were worried about the structural integrity of what was left without the roof."

What brilliant lesson lay just behind this superficially absurd veneer?

"They were going like 100 miles-per-hour and at any minute you were sure the van was just going to fall apart. It was just the neatest thing."

He stopped and I waited for the interpretation. I pulled into the parking lot, excited and a little stupid with anticipation.

Excited.

Stupid.

Waiting.

Waiting for nothing as it turned out. I had gone into the damn store, bought the damn, clips, and returned to the damn car by the time I realized that Dad wasn't going anywhere with the damn Brits. There was no advice. No silver bullet. Nothing but waiting for nothing.

What the hell?

We drove home and chatted some more about nothing.

Thanks, Dad; where's Mom?