Way back in February, my old 2001 Toyota Sienna died and I really wasn’t sure whether to fix it or get a new car. In the end, after a lot of good advice from the readers over at UrbanMoms.ca, I decided to go new.

I ended up settling on a Toyota Matrix, and here she is:

She is mine and I shall call her Fifi. There’s a story behind the name, but it’s best told at another time (and preferably over a bottle of wine).

Buying (or in my case leasing) a new car can be either a good or bad experience. In my case, once I made the decision not to fix the Sienna and to go with a new vehicle, it turned out to be a very good experience. Of course, the fact that the folks at Toyota are working really hard to sell vehicles at this particular time is probably to their customers’ benefit. I got a very good price on my new Matrix (lower payments than I would have paid on a lower class of vehicle at a competitor) and everyone from the Product Advisor (a.k.a. car salesman) to the Business Manager (a.k.a. the guy who pressures you to buy the ScotchGuard and undercoating) to the guy who gave me the keys and a total bumper-to-bumper tutorial on my new wheels was super nice and very easy to deal with.

The car itself is fun to drive (it’s a manual) and comfortable. It’s missing some of the swankier features I was used to in the Sienna, like heated leather seats, sunroof and automatic climate control, but this car has all I need. It has air conditioning, cruise control and a place to plug in my iPod. I can fit twice as much in the rear cargo area (four Superstore bins instead of two) and I get nearly twice the mileage from each tank of gas.

So, yeah. I’m happy.

Where is the proud, smart, carefree woman I used to be? The woman with smile lines instead of wrinkles, and a sparkle in her eye instead of dark circles underneath? I used to look forward in time and see nothing but a broad road ahead, full of interesting twists and turns and forks; a path blazing with light and possibility. At forty I look back and see the road I travelled and I’m surprised. It’s straight and flat and predictable, and all those forks and twists are dead ends now, choked with weeds and closed to me forever. When I bother to look ahead now, I see a road cloaked in dust. So many have sped ahead of me, finding their paths and blazing their trails that I cannot see my own road anymore.

Instead of energetic and optimistic, I often feel weary and weighted down with responsibility. Instead of turning with interest, I cringe at the sound of my own name being called out. Hearing my name called has failed to be a summons to a fun gathering, an interesting dialogue, an unexpected meeting with an old friend. It is instead another obligation, another need to fill, another responsibility.

I had hoped to feel good and strong at forty. I had hoped to be powerful and optimistic and secure. Instead I find myself at forty feeling bitter and disillusioned. I often feel weak, powerless and without hope for a happy, fulfilling future. I had hoped to make a difference; if not to the world, then at least in some small way. Instead I fear that I have made mistakes, that I have let people down, that I have let myself down.

This isn’t who I wanted to be, this sad, slow and bitter woman. This is who I’ve become but it’s not who I want to be. I want to rise out of adversity and hold my head high with pride again. I want to revel in my own independence and self-sufficiency. I want to give my children all of me because I have it to give, and to spare.

I want to rise out of bitterness and remember — and know — that life is, actually, sweet.

What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.

But, much as I adore the Bard, I just don’t buy it. To my mind, names are really important things. A rose, indeed, would smell the same with a different name, but say for example that by some trick of etymological evolution we called them thornflowers. Not a totally inaccurate description, but one that evokes a different emotion (irony, perhaps) than the simple and monosyllabic rose.

My point is this. Names are important. Getting them right is important. Paying enough attention to know a person’s name, to say it or spell it properly – these things denote respect for a person’s very identity. I have an acquaintance I met through work whose name is Julia. The first time I emailed her I mistakenly called her Julie. When I responded to apologize, she told me it happens all the time, but I was the first person to notice the error and to apologize for it. For shame! Hundreds of people out there corresponding with Julia are calling her Julie and not even noticing, perhaps; certainly if they do they are not apologizing for the mistake.

And, having a name like Katherine, common in its prevalence but not in its spelling, I run into this a lot. It’s expected that I’ll get the odd Catherine, Kathryn, Katharine or I even once received a letter addressed to Kathern (which is a name I personally have never heard). I’m used to it: I know that if I want it right I will have to spell it out letter by letter. But I’ve also run into enough other Katherines, Catherines, Kathryns and Catharines to understand and accept it.

It’s casual and unapproved name-shortening that I just can’t stand. I, for one, always introduce myself as “Katherine”. It’s not difficult, and in Canadian English pronunciation, it only has two syllables (kath-rin). My close friends and family call me Kath, and that doesn’t bother me in the least. They know and love me and it’s been my accepted nickname for ages. Online, I go by an old school nickname, Kat, which I love, not least because I also have an abiding love for cats. So go ahead, call me Kat. I won’t mind.

But: I have told you these two nicknames are okay by me. I — very specifically — don’t introduce myself as Kathy. And before there’s a backlash of Kathy-lovers, it’s not that I have anything against the name Kathy, per se. I know (and love) a number of wonderful women named Kathy (or Cathy), but it’s just not me. Just like Julia is not Julie.

And call me anal, but it just seems to be that when someone introduces themselves (particularly in a written media like email, for example) as Katherine, to shorten it to Kathy without first asking their permission is rather presumptuous.

So just don’t, okay?

I didn’t think much of it at the time, you know. I really try to stay away from the culture of fear that’s so prevalent in our information-based culture. But today, when I was driving home from my volunteer stint at the kids’ school, I saw a guy walking down my street carrying a bucket and a squeegee. Hmmm, think I, that’s like that police email.

It just happened that I was on the phone with my husband at the time, and mentioned it to him. He encouraged me to call the police, which I thought was a bit of an overreaction. I mean, it had been a few weeks: likely this was just a legit window-washer guy right? (Forgetting that it’s February for a moment). While still on the cell phone with hubby, the guy rings my doorbell! I decided to answer, because I really didn’t want him kicking down the door while I was still in the house. He offered to wash our outdoor windows for $75, or both indoors and out for $120. I said “no thanks” and then decided to call the police after all.

I waited a few minutes and then went to yoga class, on the basis that he already thought someone was at home. When I got back from yoga, there was a message from the police…they had apprehended the guy and arrested him!

I GOT A GUY ARRESTED!

And this is the greatest excitement in weeks for my tame suburban life.