Bete Argent
When you're suffering from anxiety, everything assumes monumental proportions and seems like some kind of gigantic hurdle that is not only stopping your progress but threatening to topple over on you. Little by little, I've gotten past most of the hurdles. One of the remaining ones is Chuck's Truck. It's a full-size silver GMC 4x4 and Chuck had a lumber rack put on it. It always looked *HUGE* to me. We got it new in 2000, and it has less than 11,000 miles on the odometer. That's still practically new compared to my seventeen-year-old Toyota, and I need to learn to drive it.

I was scared enough of trying to drive it that after I loaded it with cardboard, papers, and plastic, I got one of the neighbors to take it to the recycle center for me. I felt paralyzed at the very thought of getting on the road with it.

Last week I got up enough courage to move it from behind the the house to a niche by the garage. "Hey," I thought to myself with a great deal of surprise, "this isn't so bad!" I can see out of it and reach the pedals just fine. Chuck was 5'10", I am 5'5', and we both drove the Toyota without moving the seat or the mirrors. It hadn't occurred to me that the same thing would be true of Truck. It's longer than the Toyota, and taller, but I don't think it's much wider.

This morning, as a gesture of good will (or a symbol of ownership; take your pick) I ran it out into the driveway and washed the grime off of it. There was actually moss growing in some of its crevices. I think we'll get along just fine, Truck and me.