I have quite a little commute when I go to work. If an Atlanta news station ever wants to do a story on commutes and whose is the most insane, I've got to be in the top ten.
When it comes to mileage, my car is Madonna and Tara Reid rolled into one. I bought the little 92 Accord for the sole reason of the drive back and forth to work. This was back when filling up my tank required only a small loan. Pretty soon it'll be getting to the point where I'll actually be paying for the privilege to go to work.
That's neither here nor there. Have you ever literally out-smarted yourself? It's like there are actually two brains locked in mortal combat in my head sometimes. One brain has gone through the hard lessons and knows what to do, in this case where to drive and which route to take. The other brain is a rebel, a loner. He's the rapscallion who is always talking me into doing things that make little sense but could pay huge dividends if things work out.
I'm not schizo. I want to say I heard an Indian metaphor about this on a movie or something where it's like two dogs are inside a person fighting, and the strongest one will win. I think I prefer the rant Paul goes on in Romans about doing what he wants to do but doesn' do it, not doing what he should, etc.
Driving today to work, I try a different route. This route took me through a city north of Atlanta where seemingly every waking soul decided to inhabit the same two-lane road at the exact same moment. I ended up being in a 10-mile, 45-minute parade. Time to work: 1 hour, 50 minutes.
The rebel half of my brain was going strong for the trip home as well. Altered my drive a little to avoid a couple of lights and gained about 10 minutes to my drive. All told, I spent about three and a half hours on the road.
I'm thinking about knocking out the back seat in my car and putting in a little bed like they have in 18 wheelers. I'll listen to Sirius and get my news that way. A small microwave and fridge can be back there as well. I'll miss my wife and little girl, but I can see them a couple of times a week before coming home on the weekend.
When I start thinking about this it brings me to one of my greater disappointments of the 21st century: Where are the flying cars? I grew up watching the Jetsons zip around in their little ship -- the one that looked like a VW and a crystal ball had a baby -- and couldn't wait to have my own when I was older. The year 2000 was supposed to be the point where we would have all these futuristic gizmos and start wearing silver jumpsuits, as mandated by the movies made in the 80's set in the future.
Filmmakers were really on opposite sides of the aisle back then when coming up with a scheme for the future, weren't they? Either we had the silver jumpsuit deal going, or the entire world was just trying to survive by living in these little communes while hoarding their gas and wearing football equipment as everyday attire.
She's a jealous little mistress, my car. I spend way more time with her than I do my own wife. If I drive my wife's car, the next morning we find the sponge used to wash it boiling on our stove, with a note from the Green Accord say it won't be ignored. So I drive her again to work and it makes her (the car) happy. These days she's desperate for, and happy to get, any attention that comes her way.
Kind of like Madonna and Tara.
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That fact that my writings are online for everyone to see must mean I'm pretty special, right? Not exactly, because hey, this is free and it's usually by pure chance you even found me. Enjoy.
