Some Days are Just Like That

There are days that feel a little… blue. Not tragic, not dire. Just sort of soft and soggy around the edges, like a 5 Guys burger. Today was one of those days.

On the drive home, I found myself thinking about the time I took our old Honda Pilot to a repair shop around the corner from my new office. At first, I was feeling smug—efficient even. The plan was I’d drop the car off before work, stroll to the office like a man in control of his life, do some work, get a call with the diagnosis, approve the repairs, and pick the car up on the way home. Like clockwork. Like a responsible adult. Like a man who occasionally flosses.

But the universe, as it often does, had other plans.

Mid-afternoon, having heard nothing, I gave them a call. They hadn’t gotten to it yet, but would “soon.” Late afternoon, I dropped by in person. They’d taken a look by then—oh yes—and discovered a long list of grievances the car had apparently been harboring in silence.

No official estimate yet, but the mechanic gave me a rough ballpark figure. The kind of ballpark with luxury suites and a retractable roof. And then, with the bedside manner of House, told me, “Look. You’ve got 220,000 miles on this thing. Time to put it out of its misery.”

Well. Thank you for your candor, sir.

I paid the fee—something charmingly referred to as a “diagnostic charge”—and drove away in my car with its feelings hurt. Instead, I took it to our much less convenient family repair shop a couple miles from home. They fixed it for half the price, with twice the kindness, and that supposedly dying Honda carried us another 50,000 miles over the next few years. So there, House.

Needless to say, I didn’t return to the shop around the corner.

I’m not entirely sure why that memory came to me today. Maybe because I’ve been dealing with a specialist lately, trying to make sense of a few new health quirks. My wife—an excellent researcher with a minor in common sense—noticed a pattern. New symptoms lining up like ducks in a row. She said, “Tell the doctor.” So I messaged him.

A few days later, I got a call. Not from the doctor, but from his assistant, who informed me that the doctor thought I should probably see a different specialist. Which is fine. It is. It’s… fine.

We’ve got the referral. I’ve made the appointment. Now begins the waiting—medical limbo, the land of forms and follow-ups and holding music. There’s a part of me that wants to find a new doctor entirely—someone willing to sleuth this out a little more. Someone who might say, “Let’s see what we can figure out together,” and mean it.

But those doctors are like good mechanics: rare, a little dusty, and usually booked six months out.

So for now, I rattle along. Sometimes I get a little down on myself for getting down on myself. But my brain feels foggy some days, my body a little creaky, like that old Pilot with the high mileage and the noble determination. Still starts. Still goes. Might need a little extra time to warm up in the mornings, but it gets from Point A to Point B with its dignity mostly intact.

Some days, you’re not falling apart—you’re just in your blue period. A little moody, a little off-tempo, but still painting, still showing up.

And honestly? That’s gotta count for something.