Commutes

So, it takes me about 30 minutes to drive to work each morning.

As far as daily voyages go, this is pretty unimpressive — the average American work commute is a shade over 25 minutes, and, honestly, I could probably knock five minutes off my time if I actually allowed myself to drive like the average American. It's not the shortest commute I've ever had (I spent two years at a blissful 12 minutes), but it's certainly not the worst (a hellacious 90-minute saga), and, by and large, I've learned to live with it, because the trek supplies me with the one thing I can't really get anywhere else.

Solitude.

I discovered this quite by accident, many morns ago. As it turns out, I start my sunrise journey at a bit of a drive-time Bermuda Triangle (7:35 AM) — my go-to sports station is just hitting a commercial break, my go-to classical station is about to play a march*, and the rest of Dallas' morning programming is essentially 12-year-olds with Christmas Day drum sets.

Despite this, I tried to make things work for a while. I really did. I'd play music off my phone, or dig an old CD out of the glovebox — Matchbox 20 live hits? Whatever, yes, fine, anything — but my heart was never really in it. After a few years of exceptionally half-assed singing and one disastrous stint with audio books, I realized I was just turning up the volume for the sake of the noise. I'd had enough. One day, I pulled the plug.

And at that moment, with the gentle hum of the car as backdrop, for the first time I was officially "Travis, table for one."

As someone who writes pseudo-frequently, hearing my own voice in my head is not an alien experience. I know what my mental messaging sounds like. But over time, I'd grown used to penning my tales at the office, or at an equally busy homestead - sometimes a bar. Usually a bar. More than zero times at a bar. And perceiving your mental-self mull over daily drama in a place like that is very different than true solitude — there are so many other sounds and sights to be had. You can hear yourself think, but with mild interference. It's like being able to hear the conversation from the group next to you at a party. You have to lean in a little if you don't want to miss anything.

But once you turn your car onto the tollway/highway/freeway/expressway each morning, and you mute the distractions, you've no choice but to be a pretty rapt audience to yourself. You'd be surprised what you might learn. Or not. Honestly, it depends on the day. Sometimes, I'm a little appalled how boring I am. I should read more. I digress.

So why does this matter to the millennial? Aren't we the generation that wants walkable neighborhoods and shorter commutes? I thought we wanted dense living, where the office is a step away from the home, with some gastropubs and a pizza joint squished betwixt.

Truth told, I do want that. Or at least most of it. I'd save money on gas (but waste it on pizza), and I'd welcome the exercise of walking or biking right up to my cubicle. But at the same time, I realize I'd lose something there — I'd forgo that hour (30 minutes each way) where I can't look at my phone, can't really talk to another human, can't check my email, can't troll on Facebook, can't do really much of anything but sit and hear myself think.

Charting out my mental states during the morning commute.

You're going to tell me I can do that at home. You don't need a commute to be silently introspective, you say. But you know what's a tough sell? Coming home from work, kissing the wife, and telling her to hold my smartphone while I sit and stare at the wall for an hour. That won't work. I hope it won't work. I'm a little concerned if it works. And don't tell me this is what the shower is for — it takes me, like, four minutes to shower. My mental self hasn't even gotten through the preamble yet.** Brain Travis is long-winded.

Problem is, every other minute of my day is occupied by A) work obligations, B) home obligations, or C) mobile device connectivity. This is the millennial curse — we are always needed and always available. A brief commute is great, but isn't it just a shorter route from one hyper-connected spot to the next? Aren't we just trying to get to distractions faster?  

Trust me, I'm not high-fiving myself over this. I wish there another option. But as far as I can tell, the Fortress of Solitude lists just one address. When I run, I run with headphones on, and my brain is rattling around in my skull.*** Not conducive to deep thinking. When I walk the dog, I see neighbors who ask me about my day. Breaks the flow. No matter where I turn, my position has been surrounded. I've been hopelessly overrun by on-demand society.

As it turns out - and as horribly baby-boomer as this sounds - the car, and the commute I use it for, is my last solitary frontier. I can't divorce my daily drive. This is the very definition of Stockholm Syndrome. I know this. And yet I recognize I truly would struggle to adjust without that outlet. I can't find anything else that will do. I'm all ears for suggestions.

Just don't try and reach me between 7:30 and 8 AM.

*-I hate marches. I swear John Philip Sousa composed the same piece 200 times. The world is a monstrous place.
**-Your best ideas don't come in the shower - your half-baked ones do.
***-I run like I'm on stilts. No, like a duck on stilts. Why am I telling you this?