02-11-2009
The day before yesterday an odd awareness overtook my normal sense of logic. I was driving home from the bank, and as I neared the entrance to my community, my foot decided to ignore the instructions my brain sent to make a right and instead chose to accelerate. I sped past the entrance, and the slow out of state driver, and kept going. I didn’t have a particular destination in mind; I only knew that I didn’t want to stop just yet.
Of course, my small flight of freedom ended rather quickly as I knew I was just going to waste gas, so the money-minded part of me forced me to take the next right. Even so, a little bit of rebellion urged me to drive down the road, and follow it until it ended. It was a short drive, the road curving around the Hyatt before dead-ending, but I felt somewhat elated in the trip.
Living the suburban life has forced me into a routine that is so repetitive I begin to fear for my sanity. I understand that I am very fortunate; nevertheless, I cannot help but to affirm that the 9-5 lifestyle isn’t one that is suited for me. There is no variance. There is no surprise, nor a fluctuation in the rhythm that makes me look towards tomorrow with anticipation. My steps are always even and carefully measured, neither lasting longer than the other, the syncopation of my life remaining ever constant.
I felt euphoric, so much so that I almost decided to skip the entrance home again; and even more so when my gas gage remained right where it had before my little spur of the moment expedition. Pulling into my parking spot was distressing, and I let the rumble of my engine tell me when it was time to turn off my car.
Yesterday, as I was leaving for home, I saw a coworker walking towards the bus stop. Without barely giving it proper consideration, I was already waving him over with a big grin and a head bob towards the empty passenger seat. He was surprised, asking me if Bell Towers [his destination] would be on my way home, and I was happy to respond that I lived across the street. He asked me if I lived across the street from Bell Towers, and pulling out the spot, I joyfully informed him that I lived across the street from the store. Bell Towers is about 25 minutes away and obviously out of the way for me, but I was eager to have a destination that put some distance between me and my everyday view.
On the way we got to talk about a multitude of things. He used to live in Las Vegas, and as he’s informed us on a constant basis, is dying to go back. We talked about how he’s met the lead singer for The Killers [my favorite band], and that his cousin is the drummer for Papa Roach. We discussed the technicalities of driving a stick-shift car, and he told me that if he ever got one again, he wouldn’t mind teaching me to drive it. He told me about how he used to be in two bands, playing drums on one and the bass on the other, and I reminisced on how much I missed being part of the choir. The drive was entirely too short, and I was disheartened by having to let him out; it meant that my purpose in being here was over, and that I had to go back home.
The drive back took a little longer. It was around four o’clock and Obama had been in town around noon to speak - the road was full of supporters who were eager to get home with smiles on their faces. The song “Shut Up and Drive” from Rhianna seemed to work its way into my head, and I blared the radio as loud as I dared to help numb the fact that I was stuck in traffic. Returning home left me with the same feeling I had the day before, and I remembered the epiphany I had on Monday. Simply put, with no elegance in structure or flowery words: I was bored.
Not the kind of bored that you could alleviate with a quick game of cards or night out with friends. Not the kind of bored that would diminish with reading a new book, or even a change in job title. I was bored of this life. The 9-5 grind was draining my very soul, and the prospect of having to start it all over again the next day almost made me physically ill. I wonder if it’s really of my own volition that I have fallen into this appalling humdrum cycle. I take pride in my “No Regrets” mind frame - believing adamantly that my life is mine through my choosing, and not through some destiny or fate.
So keeping that sharp reminder of my morals in mind, I wake up again at six am, and feel my body ache and my mind die. I follow my previous day’s footsteps - always even and carefully measured, neither lasting longer than the other; the syncopation of my life seemingly ready to remain an ever constant mundane symphony.
Here’s hoping for a year strayed from the beaten path, and the start of a daring new adventure.
Of course, my small flight of freedom ended rather quickly as I knew I was just going to waste gas, so the money-minded part of me forced me to take the next right. Even so, a little bit of rebellion urged me to drive down the road, and follow it until it ended. It was a short drive, the road curving around the Hyatt before dead-ending, but I felt somewhat elated in the trip.
Living the suburban life has forced me into a routine that is so repetitive I begin to fear for my sanity. I understand that I am very fortunate; nevertheless, I cannot help but to affirm that the 9-5 lifestyle isn’t one that is suited for me. There is no variance. There is no surprise, nor a fluctuation in the rhythm that makes me look towards tomorrow with anticipation. My steps are always even and carefully measured, neither lasting longer than the other, the syncopation of my life remaining ever constant.
I felt euphoric, so much so that I almost decided to skip the entrance home again; and even more so when my gas gage remained right where it had before my little spur of the moment expedition. Pulling into my parking spot was distressing, and I let the rumble of my engine tell me when it was time to turn off my car.
Yesterday, as I was leaving for home, I saw a coworker walking towards the bus stop. Without barely giving it proper consideration, I was already waving him over with a big grin and a head bob towards the empty passenger seat. He was surprised, asking me if Bell Towers [his destination] would be on my way home, and I was happy to respond that I lived across the street. He asked me if I lived across the street from Bell Towers, and pulling out the spot, I joyfully informed him that I lived across the street from the store. Bell Towers is about 25 minutes away and obviously out of the way for me, but I was eager to have a destination that put some distance between me and my everyday view.
On the way we got to talk about a multitude of things. He used to live in Las Vegas, and as he’s informed us on a constant basis, is dying to go back. We talked about how he’s met the lead singer for The Killers [my favorite band], and that his cousin is the drummer for Papa Roach. We discussed the technicalities of driving a stick-shift car, and he told me that if he ever got one again, he wouldn’t mind teaching me to drive it. He told me about how he used to be in two bands, playing drums on one and the bass on the other, and I reminisced on how much I missed being part of the choir. The drive was entirely too short, and I was disheartened by having to let him out; it meant that my purpose in being here was over, and that I had to go back home.
The drive back took a little longer. It was around four o’clock and Obama had been in town around noon to speak - the road was full of supporters who were eager to get home with smiles on their faces. The song “Shut Up and Drive” from Rhianna seemed to work its way into my head, and I blared the radio as loud as I dared to help numb the fact that I was stuck in traffic. Returning home left me with the same feeling I had the day before, and I remembered the epiphany I had on Monday. Simply put, with no elegance in structure or flowery words: I was bored.
Not the kind of bored that you could alleviate with a quick game of cards or night out with friends. Not the kind of bored that would diminish with reading a new book, or even a change in job title. I was bored of this life. The 9-5 grind was draining my very soul, and the prospect of having to start it all over again the next day almost made me physically ill. I wonder if it’s really of my own volition that I have fallen into this appalling humdrum cycle. I take pride in my “No Regrets” mind frame - believing adamantly that my life is mine through my choosing, and not through some destiny or fate.
So keeping that sharp reminder of my morals in mind, I wake up again at six am, and feel my body ache and my mind die. I follow my previous day’s footsteps - always even and carefully measured, neither lasting longer than the other; the syncopation of my life seemingly ready to remain an ever constant mundane symphony.
Here’s hoping for a year strayed from the beaten path, and the start of a daring new adventure.