On the corner of Monument and Lombardy, right in front of the roundabout under the J.E.B. Stuart monument, there’s a fancy building with a doorman. And from his vantage point, he waves at each and every commuter advancing through the intersection with a big smile. Everyone gets a wave.
This is the first stop. The Bluetooth has just caught the signal of my phone in my lap, I’ve got a tube of mascara between my teeth, Marc Maron is clearing his throat or whatever I listened to before I shut the lights off in the bathroom kicks back on. I tilt my chin up and glance into the rearview mirror.
And every morning, when I duck down to see him through the windshield, he waved at me and smiled, without fail.
It was like a little forced reminder I was human, and that it was just a day in the life. Smile and wave.
At Monument and Robinson, there’s the trim lady with the ponytail who runs without moving her arms. Right on schedule.
I always hit the red light at the Stonewall Jackson monument and Marc is just setting up the show at this point. I click the forward 15 seconds button a few times, and the light goes green. I see the tree my friend hit with his car. The Halloween party house. The turn I made once where the pho from Mekong spilled all over my back seat.
By Monument and Sheppard, I note the houses with the ivy I love. I see the low brick wall where I sat down to catch my breath when I ran on that really hot day. At Monument and Staples Mill, I see the brick church, The Holy Comforter, which my parents used to call the Holy Sheet.
At Monument and Libbie, I always look to the left and see the hospital where both my nephews were born. I think about that gorgeous day driving to meet Austin when Rob was in Oregon and I took a picture at the light to commemorate the moment. Marc’s just starting to dig in. He’s asking what their father did, and if their parents are still together.
Further down, right before Three Chopt, there was (until they fixed it) a pothole that I almost always remembered to swerve around. The days I forgot and hit it, a superstitious voice inside me warned me that it would be a bad day.
The rest was somewhat of a race against the clock. Avoid the left lane in the last blocks, because the minivans are always braking to turn off at the YMCA or the elementary school. Look left to see if the McDonald’s billboard has changed—nope! Merge right at the Goochland County sign, but not too late, or you’ll miss the turn off. Follow the Lexuses, the BMWs, the Audis and the Acuras all the way in, and choose the right song for the final approach. Uplifting, but serious. Burp audibly one last time.
Morning commutes are what you make them. I’ve had some good ones, and I’ve had some bad ones. But, I went into this one with a positive attitude almost every day (bananas excluded), even the extra sleepy ones, which meant my last one this evening was with a heavy heart—no lie.
For me, this commute became a time to measure moments—and not like the really super long moments when you’re holding chapstick up to your face and your hand is closing in but you have no idea if you’re going to touch down anywhere near your mouth or not. More like, the moments where you can look around at familiar things with a vague sense that you’ve got what it takes to handle the day, and you think, “Nothing is really so bad!”
To be fair, I hadn’t had a real legitimate commute in over 7 years. But what I thought I’d hate about this one—see this old post for reference—I didn’t. It wasn’t anxious; it was cheerful, and sort of take-it-as-it-comes. Kind of like me lately.
Everything I thought would be hard about this job wasn’t. It was the right kinds of challenges that were.
I hope this growing up shit is a pattern.
-C.
[Deets for the cheap seats: Farrow linen dress from Need/Supply + Rag and Bone Shaw mules.]
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