On a slow Sunday afternoon I realize some women will catch up on t.v. reruns. The sophisticated of us may meet friends for brunch or skinny lattes. Others will hit the mall for a little shopping retail.
None of these are me. I collect a few bic pens, chocolate, and my car keys.
When I was very small I remember my parents taking me out for drives. Well watching the telephone wires from the backseat I decided this was a pointless concept. Muted adult voices drifting back, mixed with now vintage soft rock.
Once in my teens I overheard a theory that boys use driving as an experience well girls use it as a tool. As a generalization I must admit this makes sense. I also once overheard a slightly bitter woman saying that men tend to prefer driving standard because they're simply power hungry.
I drive standard, partly because I've grown to love the experience that is driving. Such as drizzly Sunday afternoons, downshifting on twisty mountain roads. Playing overused albums by Dido or Natalie Imbruglia. Parking at the end of backroads where no one will find me and I can scribble endlessly on scrap paper with cheap ballpoint, sprawling across my passanger seat.
I can haunt my childhood neighborhood and window shop. Just to imagine. Looking for a sign on the ideal half acre. A plot with a veiw or a little place to fix up. As long as I'm here my restlessness will take some form.
I realize, as I skid around gravel corners, that I'll undo all the summer pedalling I've done, laying claim to climate awareness. Even in my efficient little Civic. As summer comes I'll be driving along the lake with the windows down. Listening, this time, to Aerosmith or Our Lady Peace. I'll be speeding alongside fields with the smell of sunshine and an eye out for cops.
But I can't help it.