Driving Gloves

I've made this mistake before. The last time I had a long commute, I got in the habit of listening to punk rock on my way into work. I love it. It's a better jolt than caffeine. However, it can make you a little agro on the road. Honking horn. Flipping bird. That was then, though. Now, I'm a Buddhist. I'll just chant for those stupid asses.

I also arrived at the office a tad "intense". I was ready to go. Ready to do something. My co-worker suggested listening to jazz instead. While it's an art form I appreciate, to me, it's better heard in the evening. In the morning, I want more.

Another side effect of punk tunage is speed. That can be a problem. I was born with a lead foot. The first thing I learned to drive was a motorcycle. I like to go fast. I like to feel the road. I lean into the curves in my car. Listening to a hard, heavy beat and a raucous serenade, looking ahead at an open stretch of undulating highway...I dare you not to go eighty. Heck. I'm just trying to stay under fifty. (It's the posted speed in most of the area I barrel through...I have the most difficulty where it's not.)

I'm being challenged all sorts of ways with this new gig. Wake up early. Be on time. Keep an eye out for the fuzz. Sheesh. That's a lot to ask from a girl first thing in the day. I might soon be going back on the Starbucks -- though I've been on the papercup wagon nearly a year now...really don't want to blow it.

The drive home, however, is taken at a slower pace. As the sun sets into the Pacific, I chat with friends as the road unwinds me home. I'm too tired to work the iPod, and the BlackBerry has speed dial.


Play with speakers set to 11.