Just Relax
It’s standardized test time.
The students are stressed beyond reason. Eyes wide, pencils trembling, the faint scent of collective dread. I do my best to coach them through it:
“Don’t put extra pressure on yourself.”
“Relax! Do your best.”
“Just be yourself.”
This last one feels especially ambitious, given that they don’t seem to possess a schema for “self” and instead just exist, unfiltered and unrefined. On second thought, it may be the one thing they do with ease, and the one thing that becomes elusive with age.
I explain that this is simply a chance to look under the hood and see what’s going on in there. A little diagnostic moment. No big deal.
These small motivational speeches have, at best, a ceremonial effect.
Speaking of under the hood…
It has come to my attention that my own vehicle could use an inspection.
Yesterday, I decided to begin with an oil change. While I have been taught how to change my own oil filter, I opted for the shop. In my defense, there was also a tricky headlight panel involved, and together these crossed the threshold from “character-building task” into “lifestyle overhaul.”
Now, ideally, I do not interact with anyone at the shop.
My preferred method is to arrive, slip my key into the small envelope, carefully describe the problem with diligent, earnest detail in pencil, and slide it through the slot. Then I leave. Free. Unquestioned.
Unfortunately, yesterday required human interaction.
As soon as you roll down the window, the questions start. Rapid-fire. No warm-up.
“What’s your oil weight preference?”
“Is your transmission shifting smoothly at low speeds?”
“Do you want us to check your serpentine belt while we’re in there?”
“When was the last time you had your differentials serviced?”
My differentials? What are those again? I thought we were here about oil and maybe a lightbulb.
I freeze. Every time.
It’s a pop quiz. And why am I so unprepared?
Suddenly I can barely remember my make and model. If pressed, I could probably identify the color with moderate confidence.
Then come the follow-ups:
“What’s your phone number?”
“Do you have a coupon?”
“Can we hook you up with wiper blades?”
This last one always throws me.
Yes? No? What is the correct answer? Has anyone ever walked into a shop already planning to get new wiper blades?
I panic.
“Yes.”
Of course yes.
By the time I leave, I am unsure if I passed. New lights are blinking on the dash, the headlight is still out (apparently it’s very hard to get to), but I do have plenty of oil.
I am reminded of the kids. We may never feel prepared, but we are asked anyway. In the absence of pressure, real or perceived, I am rarely uncertain.