I vacillate between hating the fact that I have to drive nearly 50 minutes to and from work and relishing the every day alone time with my tunes and thoughts and occasional stops for decaf coffee. Mostly I dislike the fact that I’m so far away from everyone in my family, and that it takes so much of my day to get to the place where I do my job. Because, you know, gas and time and traffic and rush rush rush and uggghbleerrrrgggh.
Here’s a weird quirk about me—when I get to work and pull into my parking spot, it is as if a bomb is going to go off in my car and I have to exit as quickly as humanly possible. I hate being inside the confines of my vehicle for one second longer than is necessary to pick up my bags and get out. It’s kind of phobic, actually. I guess I figure I can maximize my time at work if I sprint to my desk from the parking lot. 47 seconds saved—YES! That’s 47 more seconds of my day taken back. EAT IT COMMUTE. OCCUPY CLOCK … Street?
I think maybe I should start listening to audio books. Perhaps that would calm me down a notch. Or I could go ahead and invent teleportation, like I’ve been meaning to. Yes, I think I’ll just do that.