Heading out in about 5 hours to deliver the children to their grandparents for a few weeks of vacation (theirs or ours, it’s hard to guess) and I suddenly realize just how much I’ve come to hate sitting in a car.
I used to hunger for the freedom that a car represented; and when I finally got my drivers license, you couldn’t get me out of the vehicle except to sleep. I’d plan trips like the impending one to the nth degree, mapping out which way to go, picking just the right music; and I’d spend the day proceeding it cleaning every inch of the vehicle inside and out.
These days I don’t notice the car is dirty until I can’t see out the windows. I don’t even want to talk about sitting. Legs hurt, hips hurt, back hurts; and you just have to sit there. Music is secondary now, too. If we’re lucky, the wife and I will hit a good conversation rhythm, and we won’t even notice the radio is off.
I don’t drive by myself any more, maybe that’s what’s different. I doubt it, though. Given a choice, I’ll play the passenger rather than have to concentrate on driving for hours at a time.
Maybe car trips are like the other trips; drug trips specifically. At first it’s a mind blowing change, to be in control and able to do anything (at least in your own mind, which is where it counts when it comes to trippin’) and then as the number of trips piles up, they start turning into bad trips, and you wonder why you ever wanted to do that shit in the first place.
…Or maybe I just need to take up flying.
I made it back alive though. It’s always a wonder when that happens, even though it has happened every time. It could always happen next time. There is a cheerful thought.