Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Instead of drafting five-year plans, I prefer to subject myself to occasional audits, frank self-appraisals wherein I determine which items in my career toolkit need the most work. The commute–or rather my tolerance for commutes–is what’s under the spotlight at the moment, and no matter how many ways I try to slice it, I don’t think there are easy answers here.

I’ve yet to top 12 minutes after nine years on the clock. This used to be a badge of honor, but when the chips are down, I don’t think it’s sustainable. My effective radius is stunted, after all, and bragging rights suddenly seem inconsequential and ridiculous. In an attempt to fix this and increase my capacity for sitting in traffic, I’ve been hitting the roads during rush hour recently. And when the convoy of misery grinds to a halt, I’ve been trying to savor the gridlock.

I realize this is slightly twisted. The traditional remedies simply aren’t appealing, though. Take audiobooks, for instance. I want complete focus when I’m driving, for one thing, and since I seldom read with my eyes, I sure as heck ain’t reading with my ears. Part of me finds comfort in viewing the commute as a cost of modernity, sad as that may be. There was a time when our ancestors would wake up and take down, like, a fuckin’ woolly mammoth and a few raptors. But those instincts are gone nowadays. We no longer hunt. We queue, and all of nature shall tremble for it.