So I thought we were sitting pretty last week, when Mr. Faded Glory returned to blogging. Turns out it was a happy mirage.
Today, for example, time has run out on me. Stupid time. This always happens. And it always ticks me off. Where does all my time go? When did I become The Weather Man?
So that’s what’s infuriating Mr. Faded Glory today, and why you’re getting a QuickPost instead of something delightfully profound.
Nope, I used to have plenty of time. (Uh, when I was 15.) No, I used to have more time. That’s it. Because now that I live in Lawrence, Kan. (And I’m not going anywhere. Not even to the Big Ten), I have joined the most soul-crushing of pursuits, the most decidedly of American frustrations, the tie that binds those of us trapped in middle casteclass …
The commute.
Yes, I’m now a commuter. I never was a commuter before. Not since 2000, anyway. Bet you didn’t know that.
In Kansas City, I lived downtown, four blocks away. At the old place, I was a 5 minute drive from work. Now, it’s 35 minutes. And it’s not far, the traffic isn’t so bad, and it really could be much, much worse.
And it’s not even the drive that’s that bad. Sure, there’s jerks on the road, weaving on their Bluetooth, not knowing to hit the merge lane running, instead of stopping to signal. There’s annoying tollbooths, but less-than-annoying K-Tag/Speedpass lanes. And I don’t really mind waking up earlier. I always wondered how older guys enjoyed the morning hours better than late night, and when it started. My dad, for example, always got up at 4:30.
But now that’s me. I don’t mind getting up. I even have a Bedtime Monitor on this laptop, so I don’t mind going to bed earlier. And I don’t mind getting caught up on podcasts, particularly if Tony Kornheiser and John Feinstein are caught in a spat.
But it’s the loss of time that’s frustrating. Each day, that’s 70 minutes, gone. Seventy minutes, not spent with Ms. Faded Glory or Franklin or Sophie. Seventy minutes, not writing. Seventy minutes, not furthering that writing. Seventy minutes, not running on the treadmill, or stretching before a workout, or mowing the lawn.
And the waking up isn’t hard, but holy dear God, I’m never so tired as when I pull the car into my garage. I mean, it’s pulling teeth to get me to do anything except stare into Jeopardy! before I’m trapped in a power nap. Then I wake up, putter around like most dweebs, and/or workout or eat takeout or whatever, and I’m up too late doing (this?) whatever; watching sports or screwing around on facebook or burning through a season of Mad Men. (Excellent so far, by the way. Just like my career, or my job. Well, except for the drinking and smoking and sex and money…)
And I go to bed too late, wake up too early, and lose seventy minutes each day, that I don’t blame on the Internet or procrastination or power naps or Tivo. I blame it on the commute.
And we all do. That’s why we’re frustrated, sometimes. For me, at least, today.
And were we to call for a revolt, us commuters – denizens of the turnpike, subway, or sidewalk, who would we revolt against? Us? We’re the ones who live here. No, we’ll just endure. That’s what we do. That’s what you do. That’s what I do.
One of the necessary evils, to live where you want and supposedly do what you want, and all that jazz. I’m sure it’s fine.
But anyway, it’s late, and like I said, Mad Men, really good. Watching penultimate episode of season one, and each time it’s interrupted for a preview of Rubicon, I tell myself – after missing seasons of Mad Men and Breaking Bad, I’m getting in on the ground fucking floor with Rubicon.
But wait, that sounds familiar. I’m kind of tired. Did I say that already? Must be the seventy minutes again.
