Blazing down the road along a craggy mountain-side coastline...sapphire blue mingles with shades of sulfur and white foam as I speed by in my* (*our, whatever) Jeep Wrangler, my hair whipping in whisps out of my pony tail, and every driver on the road in their crappy Sebrings jealous as Hell.... (In the longest run-on since Joyce ever! (said the fragment. Still a fragment. Still a fragment. D'oh!)
This is what I think of when driving my Jeep. Even that time in the Bruno's parking lot when I had the e-brake on and couldn't figure out why 2nd gear felt soooo sluggish and syrupy (until I figured it out, obviously). ...That was today.
I think about it even when all I'm doing is passing an X-Terra or chilling behind a jacked up Honda Accord that's about to turn without signalling into The Grove at the University (go back to Mississippi, you no-driving, son of a bitch!...no really, according to his tag, he was from Mississippi).
The Jeep is beautiful. It's like Belle, the cat. It's my baby, Man. It's the thing that makes me forget that at some point, I'm supposed to be slinging hash and learning a foreign language as I go to scrape by while staying somewhere random. (All right, given my antisocial tendencies, I would never be able to "stay somewhere random" as I have a freakish preference for my personal time.) Still, the Jeep makes me feel like its a holiday every time I get in! Even when I'm motoring to work.
Today was the first day in for ages where I haven't "had" (mind, no one has to do anything) to run errands during lunch in lieu of consuming precious calories or just (perish the thought) relax.
No, no, I suffer from American-itis. Even the Italians know we have it according to Liz Gilbert's friends in Eat, Pray, Love. They recognize the weight of the American guilt for when we're not busy. We're ashamed of ourselves when we're not productive or getting something done. God forbid you take a day off without having at least one gold star to put on your "Do Work" chart. It's a freaking illness, Man!
I totally see it. My mom is a glowing example of Americanitis. She worked out of high school, went to college, earned a PhD with babies while teaching, then taught for 27 years. She promptly felt ashamed of being lazy after retiring and opened her own store (well, after she independently sold Avon/killed herself for a couple of years).
Based on the fact that only 45% or some nonsense like that pay taxes, I just assumed this disease was localized to my nuclear family. Nooope. It's a national epidemic. Americans are ironically the hardest working laziest SOBs on Earth. We work ourselves to the grit until we have nothing left to offer, then we collapse in a poop-pile where we recover by marinating into our couches, smoking and drinking whatever is within reach, and eating sugary or salty chemicals out of a paper bag. Delicious.
I recognize my genetic tendency toward Americanitis. What's worse, is I'm already experiencing the onset of this debilitating disorder. Today, during lunch, when I didn't have anything "to do," I was confronted by confusion and fear. What will I do with myself without obligation? I can't enjoy myself outside of pre-scheduled, quarantined pleasure-periods. That would be downright...nice. Perhaps I could take a walk in the 90+ degree heat. Yes, that would be positive for my body and it would fulfill the delicate "to do" criteria. With no groceries to get and little money to spend on "junk," it was hard to determine how to waste my lunch hour.
I did indeed waste it. I feel ashamed, but at the same time, I feel angry. How dare you, America? How dare you work me too many hours and underpay me, and then make me feel guilty about possibly relaxing on my lunch hour? You bastards! Honestly, if lunch were an hour or two longer, I would go home, thus using twice as much gas, thus pumping additional funds into the economy. I digress.
We should adopt a European model...not just for our workdays (shorter, fewer, longer lunches = more productivity, more money spent by citizens) but for our legitimate relaxation, too.
Only on days "off" do I eat two or three times a day. I want to be Italian every day. I want to spend hours lazing over a meal while reading or staring at scenery or pondering life. I want to not worry about stuff or feel bad if I got nothing done when in my own house. Thankfully, I have learned to do these things when out of town.
And, the Jeep helps me do them in town (and thus a way to tie in this random, rambling, running theme). The Jeep helps me relax. It takes me away (without mentally singing a Natasha Beningfield or whatever her name is song). Perhaps one day, we'll live in a country where citizens can relax without shame. Where they don't take their work home or make their home work. Where lunch is a meal and not a marathon. Where we have time to run our errands without bursting into tears at the super market line because it's late and we're tired and we just want to go home! Please! (I have felt this way more times than I would care to recall when having had to stop on the way home from work.)
I pledge allegiance to the Jeep and all that it represents....
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