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We’ll get to my vehicular duress shortly. Suffice it to say, my weekend started early this week.
Granted, when you’re unemployed you can make the argument that the weekend starts when you want it to or never stops, though based on my current routine, I would argue a shift occurred earlier than the norm.
This is further backed up by a noted change in my sleeping/working ratios. There is no single root or cause, but people in my family seem to cram more into our weekends than standard days. This isn’t necessarily tied to an increase in play since it often involves more traveling, extra grunt labor, and reduced food intake in conjunction with less sleep and media-viewing loss.
Since August, I can only think of one weekend where the Smith clan stayed close to home base. The monotony was overwhelming and has since been largely avoided through a series of trips, work projects, and other miscellanea labor.
A few weeks ago I’d voiced an interest in helping out some of my relatives with a sales booth they were running over this weekend. Since I thought I’d be more helpful there than slumming around J.C., I said I’d do whatever, whenever, however.
Of course, when you say things like that, you often get held to them.
I fielded a slew of phone calls Thursday morning. After dropping my mom off at school where she works as a librarian, I still had a list of chores to work on. I was only partially finished with the second item on my list, watching the “Good Morning America” 30th anniversary celebration, when I got the first call. Apparently, there was an unexpected shift in the dress code and my mother needed a different outfit, preferably before students started walking in.
Being talked through your mother’s closet, trying to find a decent ensemble, is not easy to do if your brain still hasn’t kicked in yet (though it will dull some of the embarrassment of carrying a pink shirt while you pass through a crowded parking lot). I opted to take the back route behind the school for my exit. I could parrot lectures given to me by professors on gender roles and the creation of societal expectations, but I didn’t necessarily believe it all the first time I heard them, and some of those concepts certainly cannot be quickly communicated to a crossing guard who is eyeing you funny.
Anyway, I faced early-morning rush hour traffic a second time (since an hour between trips had perfectly spaced me out to hit the next peak), I returned to the apartment in time to catch some noteworthy G.M.A. interview bloopers.
In my defense, I argue my brain works better if you slowly wake it up (which is also my justification for my occasionally abusing my snooze alarm). In the past, I’d read internet headlines for an hour or two, slowly working my way up to meatier stuff, interspaced with softer items like entertainment or offbeat news. Nowadays, the best way I can do that without a home internet connection is to watch the morning network news programs through the first interview of “Live with Regis and Kelly.” Not the best idea, but it works.
I had just started preparing my late breakfast when I got another phone call from my mother. It was about my pending family volunteer work. During one of the earlier back-and-fourths, I’d missed a call asking if I could go West that afternoon. Could I be backed and ready to go in an hour or two?
I believe I blinked several times as I repeatedly looked at the counter clock and the list of chores I’d been asked to do. Sure, I replied, not fully confident that my mental calculations were trustworthy, but willing to take a shot after it anyway.
Thus I returned to the streets of Jefferson City (technically the charter says “City of Jefferson,” but the municipality saves two hundredths of a cent on every printing that rearranges the word and drops the “of”).
A prolonged note on driving preferences:
I hate driving in cities. I typically find the roads poorly designed, the other drivers untrustworthy, and my own driving abilities questionable. Part of this is attributed to my extended gaps in driving while in college (occasional Wal-Mart runs while visiting home or designated driver chamferings will only keep you minimally practiced), though I’d wager another generous proportion should be attributed to where I performed most of my driving.
The majority of my driving experience was formed on back country roads logging hours for the state Department of Conservation. Driving a work truck 9-hours a day checking out gypsy moth traps and radio stations is one of the best jobs I’ll ever have. It exposed me to learning opportunities one doesn’t get in more urbanized areas. I’ve driven prolonged distances in reverse, I’ve gone down county roads that had grass growing in the middle of them, I’ve quickly crossed one-ton bridges, I’ve had to ask myself, “How much has it rained today?” when parked to a “Impassable during high water” sign. I got lots of practice making one-point turns on narrow roads, kicking up lots of dust on gravel roads, and on some abandoned roads, leaving the truck door open so I could take a running leap into the truck while kicking the vehicle into the gear while closing the door so I’d be accelerating forward just as I’d be clicking my seatbelt.
I’ve had to engage four-wheel drive to get out of a cemetery, I’ve been run off the side of the road by a Missouri Department of Transportation truck (leaving three wheels planted while the fourth hung over the edge of a bridge), and had my wheel come off while I was driving (fortunately, only when I was backing up at about 3 mph, so it was more like a lurch).
My favorite driving memory, however, is anything involving river bottom roads. Those are roads that are built on flood plains. People don’t expect them to stand up to much, so they’re mainly a thin layer of gravel that can be swamped without much damage done. There are no fences or ditches, because to maximize their crop yield, farmers plant right up to the side of the road. If you veer too far to the side, you’ll take out $1.95 worth of corn in a second (depending on the seasonal price per bushel). With that setup, it’s easy to pretend you own the land and that you’re simply cruising through your own back 40.
I got real accustomed to the luxury of country roads. Between the freedom of space and speed, I got spoiled. Doing my routes, I’d have a steady pace going until I’d hit a city. Going through more established areas would reduce my mileage and make me itch to get beyond city limits.
This inclination is probably what makes me ill-equipped to tackle urban pathways. I always feel rushed, cramped, and liable to prove the hard way that the guy tailing me isn’t really paying attention (the method that involves crunching metal and the harsh reality of applied physics).
Of course, that isn’t to say I’m perfect myself.
The adage about traffic sign suggestions I’d repeated years ago at the top of my lungs as I rode in the back of a Geo trying to see if it could hit 100+ mph, briefly came back to me Thursday. It echoed shortly after I realized I’d turned the wrong way onto a one-way street in front of a Catholic church/school after I’d pulled around a meter man who was ticketing some illegally parked cars on the corner.
The hierarchy of fears, in that situation, are as follows:
One, I don’t want to die or total the car (which would force my father to kill me).
Two, please don’t let me hit any expensive on-coming vehicles or take out a row of nuns.
Three, humunah, humunah, may that meter maid on the corner not have seen me and call me on my grossly illegal behavior.
The road turned out to be completely clear and I hurried pulled into a handicapped spot to calm my nerves. I wasn’t sure if that was an additional illegal move since I didn’t plan to stay long (and I thought I might actually meet the criteria for temporary qualification based on mental impairment).
As I breathed heavily and offered up a feverous prayer of thanks for the simple fact I wasn’t dead yet, I watched as the meter guy got back into his modified golf cart and turned up the street (in the opposite direction from where I was) to go after some different vehicles. I figure I was either out of his line of sight, my infraction was beyond his jurisdiction, he didn’t want to be a hypocrite by driving the wrong way up a one-way street to give me a ticket for doing the same, or, most likely, he plain didn’t care.
I eventually settled myself enough to rejoin the proper flow of traffic and race to get the rest of my chores completed before my ride to Kansas City arrived.
The rest of my errands were completed with much less drama. My last chore was completed around 3 p.m. when I dropped off the vehicle at my mom’s school. On the way, I passed a driving test checkpoint (you know the rubber cones with the tall flags where you’re supposed to try parallel parking without the risk of playing bumper hockey?). I’d gone past them multiple times that day in my repeated trips to the elementary school.
During previous passes, I’d contemplated altering the distance of the cones. I was torn between giving the kids an extra six inches to work with or to tighten the cones the same amount. I’d failed that part of my driving test each time I took it (and probably would have failed it a third time had I not scored the handful of points over minimum that saved me from taking the test a third time). Based on my personal experiences I could give a solid argument for cutting the teenagers a break or holding them to a higher standard. On my final pass through, however, I saw how some of the cones had gotten knocked over.
I guess the kid didn’t need any outside help from him or her from screwing up; and for that matter, neither did I.
As long as you stayed alive and kept on trying, that’s what matters (not that I’d want to say that to the meter man).
