Sometimes I'm jealous of my coworkers who have lengthy commutes.
I assume that after a crummy day in the office, the commuters enjoy a half hour of solitude in their cars. They listen to music. They muse on their thoughts. They get to decompress, like deep sea divers after a day on the ocean floor.
It takes me less than 10 minutes to drive home from work. If I leave the office in a shitty mood, I arrive home in a shitty mood.
Today I am much less jealous of the commuters. I had to cover a story yesterday afternoon in Clearwater, and I went home in the thick of rush hour.
I was not enjoying the music and contemplating the Big Issues of Life. I was stomping the brake pedal, wondering how much more frustrating the experience stop-and-go (but mostly stop) would have to get before I literally began screaming.
I chugged my way back across the Courtney Campbell Causeway, slogged through Rocky Point, navigated through the parking lot that is supposed to be the intersection of Memorial Highway and Kennedy Boulevard.
I can't believe I had ever romanticized the concept of commutes!