the long road home

I have a stupid commute: this much is well-established. Two states, three bridges, two major rivers, three counties, and a canal? If only Phil were there to check me in to the parking lot, my drive would be an especially tedious, asphalt-heavy leg of The Amazing Race. I mean, technically, there's even a ferry between here and there; I just don't need a passport to board it.

My dirty little secret, though, is that except for the hours out of my day and the thousands of dollars it costs me, and, well, the times I've been hit from behind, I don't really mind my time in the car. There's something to be said for my job being there and my life being here; a buffer zone is a valuable thing. Then again, I'm not sure my peace of mind runs three dollars a gallon.

Close to home having undeniable advantages, I did try, this Spring, to eliminate my twice-daily cross-country chase. The hiring committee, however, didn't see things my way, and really, it was probably just as well. All that potential job had going for it was proximity; it would've been nothing more than a convenient hell. While, admittedly, being able to sleep even slightly past sun-up would have been wondrous, I no longer know how to stay sane--relatively--without trailing most of my job stress in the exhaust cloud behind me. If I had gotten that job, I may well have spent 40 minutes a day driving through town with the CD player turned up ridiculously loud. After this many years of commuting, I don't know how else to get home.