After many years on an off shift, for the past few I’ve had a normal job. Bankers hours, my former coworker once called it. Depending on the day, I leave my house at 0700 or 0800. I have a 9 hour shift.
I drive my orphan car, the same one I’ve had since I was 22. Luckily for me, the drive only takes 15 minutes tops, and I’m able to use the back roads to avoid the main drag.
The road I take is long and winding. It follows the river, mostly, and is boarded by long leaf pine trees.
I continue on through a light industrial depot, and sometimes I can see the big container ships come into port. It doesn’t matter how many times I see them, like a child, I always stop to watch them. Despite a decade of living here, this native Midwesterner still finds them completely facilitating.
Next I go through the only stoplight on my journey. I’m rather proud of that.
I drive a bit further down the line until I turn on the road that leads to my place of employment. This road also holds special meaning in my life: my husband’s old apartment is here. In that living room, we shared our first kiss and got engaged. We lived here together for 7 months until we married and bought a house on the other side of town. I can see the guest bedroom window and balcony from the driver’s seat.
And I finally arrive at my destination. A place that funds all my adventures and is my greatest source of incurable anxiety. While I have stellar coworkers – really top notch people – the nature of the job is wearing heavily on me. As soon as I find a suitable replacement gig with benefits, preferably out of my current vocation, my commute will change.