60 Minutes

OK, so I work about 40 miles from my home, which means I have a wicked long commute every day--it takes at least an hour. Sometimes on weekends I can bang it down to about 45 minutes, but after all is said and done, it's just far away, and that's how long it takes. One hour.

Now, if I were a respectable human being, and a responsible adult, I would spend my time wisely. I would have learned a third or fourth language, and perhaps even brushed up on my Spanish enough to truthfully consider it a second. I'd have listened to about 91 books on tape, or at least a little NPR to maybe broaden my horizons and try to learn something that wasn't first published in Us Magazine. Have I done any of that? Hella No!

After about 14,362 hours on the road this year alone (it was a brutally long winter, folks) what can I show for my time? Well, I have memorized each and every word of every song in the anthology of the K-I-D, and that is a whole lotta bitches and hos. I have decided that the icicles hanging from the land tunnels on 696 in Oak Park scare the hell out of me, because they are precursors to the entire thing crashing down on my car, smothering me to death in a traffic jam. I am fascinated by the Chop Suey House in Warren with its "Free Parking in Rear" sign that makes me laugh every time I see it. I am dying to know who John R is, and why is he important enough to have a street named after him, yet not so much that it's only his last initial? And finally, I have come to the conclusion that the only viable car colors are black, red, and white (not all together). I don't understand blue or green cars, and don't even get me started on yellow. Or orange. Or Hummers.

Yep. That's it. All that time in the car, and that's all I have to show for it. A wonder-filled showcase of my razor-sharp intellect and lightning-fast synapses firing on all cylinders. No wonder I'm always late--too much thinkin' goin' on.