I'm sharing rides with the wife now.
That sounds negative, but it's really not. She's also, technically, my fiance, but at this point--diamond firmly affixed to her hand--she's not going anywhere and neither am I. "Wife" works.
The train--my wonderful train that I spoke so highly of--is still snaking its way along the highway and up the river, just without me in it. The "wife" works in the same area I do now, so we're sharing rides and testing our tolerance of one another during the most difficult times of the day.
We've done well so far. She knows when I don't feel like talking, and would rather listen to Howard Stern (who she once hated, but has become a fan). On the days we do feel like talking, it helps add a different element to the autopilot setting my mind descends into now that I'm weaving through those same familiar roads.
At first, the drive was actually kind of fun again. As we passed by those houses that I had come to loathe so much, I became a sort of movie studio tour guide. "Up here on the right, this place has a great wrap-around porch." "That place goes nuts at Christmas." "This is the largest house in the town and has real flames in lanterns at the entrance that never go out." She was mesmerised by them, and in a way, I came to appreciate them again, through her eyes.
As I'd expected, though, the highlight reel ran thin eventually, and as the monotony of the trip set in, the properties that once elicited an "oooohhh" wouldn't receive a passing glance from her. She was messing around on her phone, I was listening to the radio, and the scenery bending around us became, once again, a meaningless blur.
Thankfully, for the most part, we have an unspoken understanding that while we must live this trip everyday, we don't have to pretend to like it, and we can share in our jaded, flippant attitude towards what most outsiders would choose to gawk at, but that we couldn't care less about.
The other day, a woman in a very expensive Porsche she had no business driving attempted to execute a basic turn into her driveway in such a way that she mimicked what a domestic house cat dosed with LSD would have looked like if it was trying to walk through a doorway without hitting the sides. Before I could part my lips, my "wife" simply looked up from her phone and said, "What a shit-head. And fuck her for living in that house." There was no anger in the tone of her voice--it was just very matter of fact.
In that moment, I knew that I picked the right one to marry.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Monday
It's all about the little things in life.
This whole collection of writing--all of the auto-spawned introspection and observation--came from my commute. My long, trying commute. The combined hours behind a steering wheel, which have added up to weeks now, I'm sure, gave me ample time to think. But lately, the thoughts have gone...stale. Where I used to watch the world creep past my windows and try to pick out something--anything of interest--to stave off the thick atmosphere of boredom, I slowly became even more jaded. I simply didn't care anymore.
I'd slump into the front seat of my car every morning and evening and I'd feel--nothing. Nothing is a dangerous feeling. If you're happy and looking forward to something, things are good no matter what. If you're dissatisfied, you at least have the motive to make a change. But feeling nothing--that hollow emptiness of complete indifference--leads you into limbo.
This is where I was for months, and why this place has been blank. The sprawling estates that I once looked at with wonder, as if I owned a small piece of them by gazing so often, became like cardboard huts. Their once-beautiful exteriors turned ashy and grey. Their manicured lawns--lush welcome mats for the dens of aristocracy--rolled back up as split and dried tongues into dust-spewing mouths. On the occassions when I'd be forced to drive the same route when I wasn't going to or from work with other people in the car, their remarks--as mine once were--about how wonderful those places looked provoked nothing but annoyance in me. I'd say to myself, "That house is a piece of shit and there's forty more of them, filled with shit-heads." If one day a mansion was miraculously floating above its foundation, I'd give it no more than a passing glace, and maybe the finger.
I was losing myself, and it was beginning to show.
What happened next, for me, was a great moment of providence, but to everyone else it was really just common sense. You see, I live about half a mile away from a train station, but never bothered to check and see if that particular line hooked into the one leading down into Grand Central. I was a man. A man with a car. The train represented a departure from that now wholly-retarded view.
But eventually, other factors led me to contemplate the cattle cars--namely money. Sure, I was a man with a car, but my car was like a gold-digging whore who lusted after expensive dino juice. Even though it gets decent gas mileage, I was still dropping seventy bucks a week to make the trip. When I saw that not only would the train get me to work without altering my schedule, but it would also only cost thirty-three dollars, my wallet kicked me in the right ass cheek and I bought my first ticket. In retrospect, it's the best thirty dollars I've spent since I bought a bullhorn off of eBay.
That first morning, as absolutely ridiculous as it sounds, I was nervous (or anxious--one of the two). I walked to the train station and stood there with the others who were waiting for its arrival. When I heard the horn blow and saw it round the corner, my heart actually started beating faster. I've ridden on these trains countless times when going into the city, but for some stupid reason, taking the train to work felt like when I stepped out of my mother's hug and got on the bus my very first day of school.
As the train pulled away, there was this sense of total relaxation. Someone else was doing the driving. Someone else was doing the waiting, the stressing. I was just along for the ride. As trivial as it may seem, I was exceptionally and indescribably pleased with this. It was a totally new sensation.
I read from multiple news sources and online magazines on my phone, completely oblivious to the world. At one point, though, I looked up and out of the window and saw the traffic on I-95 South--not a car was moving for about a mile. It was at that point that I realized I'd only drive to work again if it was absolutely necessary.
As I made my way from the train station to my office, I strolled like Andy Dufresne as he dumped small bits of his wall down his pant leg out of his pocket in the yard. I had broken out of that solitary cell of nothingness, crawled through a mile of shit, and when I emerged from the tunnel, I was in a train.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Tuesday
How, exactly, does someone "make" toast? All that's happening is the gradual heating of bread--most likely made by someone else--which leads to it's toasty exterior. All you did was change bread. Now, if you made the bread yourself, then I suppose you could say that you created "pre-toast," if that's really your end game. But "making toast" is, by all accounts, an incorrect statement. Your role is really just watching "toast" happen.
I suppose, though, that a potential hole in this argument is that you can "make croutons"--and therein lies the rub.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Wednesday
I think it's incredibly important to just be able to say "Fuck it."
There's been a problem brewing in my personality for a while that I either couldn't understand or continually buried so far within my psyche that when it manifested itself I never associated it with the original issue. I'm an angrier person than I thought. You'd never really know it either, because I'm cordial, polite, funny and outgoing. But underneath all of that is a witch's brew of random, seemingly non-important agitators building to an overflowing boil.
Months worth of "Why won't this damn thing open?" or "Where the hell is that noise coming from?" amass inside of me until, one day, when I can't get the aluminum top off of a single serving applesauce, my fumbling useless digits will curl into a fist and I'll just hurl it into the sink at sixty miles per hour. In that moment of insanity, I'll blow off the appropriate amount of steam and then I'll be good for a little while. I'm like Ned Flanders without the "diddily."
Recently, I bought a new set of wiper blades. I usually buy Bosch blades because they've always lasted a good long while. They're more expensive than most of the other options, but you get what you pay for. This set, though, hasn't been good. During the first storm I exposed them to, they flaked off rubber onto my windshield and left streak marks across my whole field of view. Once I scraped the rubber off, they started to chatter. That vomp, vomp, vomp, vomp....screeeeeeeech every single swipe. An hour's drive in the rain with that going on is enough to drive you mad. And it did.
I lost it. I pulled off the road into a rest stop parking lot, tore the blades off their mounts and hurled them into the woods. I watched them careen down into the trees, bouncing off of branches and disturbing the sheltered wildlife, and in that moment, I felt so good. It was as if I told every engineer that designed those blades down to the person that packed them in those neat little plastic holsters (along with anyone who had ever designed anything that didn't work the way it was supposed to) to go fuck themselves. That they had failed me and this was their punishment.
But it wasn't that way at all. As I stood there in the rain on the side of the highway, breathing hard and tasting sweet vindication, a woman who had witnessed my entire mental breakdown from the car parked two spaces over rolled her window down. "What're you going to do now, hang your head out the window?"
The rain was pelting off my face and soaking deep into my hooded sweatshirt. I looked at her, confused for a second, and then looked back at my car. The bare wiper blade mounts looked like an ice cream cone after a kid licks the whole scoop off and it falls onto the ground. The only worthwhile part of their whole existence was gone. Defeated--by my own rage, no less--I went inside to the Mobil station and bought whatever blades they had. Neither of the two I obtained were the correct size and they immediately taunted me, no more than five miles down the road, with their vomp, vomp, vomp vomp....screeeeeeech.
The door not opening at work on the first pull, my computer becoming useless after extensive virus infection, that puddle I stepped in that got my shoe a little too wet, every little thing that added to that ridiculous bubbling cauldron of frustration in my head. If I had just stood back and taken a second to say, "Fuck it," with one of those incidents, I would've just been another idiot driving down the highway with annoying wipers who turned up the radio a little louder and got over it.
"Fuck it, right? They're just wipers."
I need to get there.
There's been a problem brewing in my personality for a while that I either couldn't understand or continually buried so far within my psyche that when it manifested itself I never associated it with the original issue. I'm an angrier person than I thought. You'd never really know it either, because I'm cordial, polite, funny and outgoing. But underneath all of that is a witch's brew of random, seemingly non-important agitators building to an overflowing boil.
Months worth of "Why won't this damn thing open?" or "Where the hell is that noise coming from?" amass inside of me until, one day, when I can't get the aluminum top off of a single serving applesauce, my fumbling useless digits will curl into a fist and I'll just hurl it into the sink at sixty miles per hour. In that moment of insanity, I'll blow off the appropriate amount of steam and then I'll be good for a little while. I'm like Ned Flanders without the "diddily."
Recently, I bought a new set of wiper blades. I usually buy Bosch blades because they've always lasted a good long while. They're more expensive than most of the other options, but you get what you pay for. This set, though, hasn't been good. During the first storm I exposed them to, they flaked off rubber onto my windshield and left streak marks across my whole field of view. Once I scraped the rubber off, they started to chatter. That vomp, vomp, vomp, vomp....screeeeeeeech every single swipe. An hour's drive in the rain with that going on is enough to drive you mad. And it did.
I lost it. I pulled off the road into a rest stop parking lot, tore the blades off their mounts and hurled them into the woods. I watched them careen down into the trees, bouncing off of branches and disturbing the sheltered wildlife, and in that moment, I felt so good. It was as if I told every engineer that designed those blades down to the person that packed them in those neat little plastic holsters (along with anyone who had ever designed anything that didn't work the way it was supposed to) to go fuck themselves. That they had failed me and this was their punishment.
But it wasn't that way at all. As I stood there in the rain on the side of the highway, breathing hard and tasting sweet vindication, a woman who had witnessed my entire mental breakdown from the car parked two spaces over rolled her window down. "What're you going to do now, hang your head out the window?"
The rain was pelting off my face and soaking deep into my hooded sweatshirt. I looked at her, confused for a second, and then looked back at my car. The bare wiper blade mounts looked like an ice cream cone after a kid licks the whole scoop off and it falls onto the ground. The only worthwhile part of their whole existence was gone. Defeated--by my own rage, no less--I went inside to the Mobil station and bought whatever blades they had. Neither of the two I obtained were the correct size and they immediately taunted me, no more than five miles down the road, with their vomp, vomp, vomp vomp....screeeeeeech.
The door not opening at work on the first pull, my computer becoming useless after extensive virus infection, that puddle I stepped in that got my shoe a little too wet, every little thing that added to that ridiculous bubbling cauldron of frustration in my head. If I had just stood back and taken a second to say, "Fuck it," with one of those incidents, I would've just been another idiot driving down the highway with annoying wipers who turned up the radio a little louder and got over it.
"Fuck it, right? They're just wipers."
I need to get there.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Tuesday
Summer's over now, which means that I'm being shoved off of the highway and onto backroads much sooner during my morning drive. I used to be able to make it all the way to my exit on the highway, but now it's like the whole world has been jerked back into reality and they all meet in the morning to trudge the beaten trail together.
I always think it's interesting how so many people are trying to progress in the same direction but yet they have no idea how to do it faster than a snail's pace. Some mornings I hit the road and think that through some miraculous turn of events traffic will be both voluminous and simultaneously forging ahead at a steady clip. But then again, I haven't had coffee first thing in the morning in a while now and it might be seriously affecting my brain. Without fail, there is nothing miraculous about traffic these days, except its undaunting ability to morph me into a frustrated mess behind a fist-pounded steering wheel. So in order to avoid aneurysm, I flee the collapsing hoard, that beacon of vehicular incompetence, and take to slower and calmer roads with whoever else decided that the longevity of their sanity was more valuable than a straight(er) shot to their destination.
The back roads are really nice, though. Perhaps even a little too relaxing for those without a healthy dose of caffeine in their system. I slither between sprawling estates with manicured landscapes and scoot underneath bowing canopies that have tangled, over time, to create miniature tunnel systems that mute the sunlight and disrupt my satellite radio reception. I dodge those small plastic signs designed to look like children warning me to drive slow as I pass the country club's tennis court crosswalk. Very rarely is anyone out that early, but the heated tennis court is still steaming off the morning dew in anticipation. There are school buses that slow everything down, but they dip in and out of so many neighborhoods that time spent behind them is relatively fleeting. A few flashes of the red and yellow and they're gone. The traffic cop at the high school recognizes me now and we exchange waves as he motions me to continue. He's got a wild behavior about him that aides in his ability to usher oncoming traffic in multiple directions but not control his temper when disobeyed. He's laced into a few drivers who tested his patience, always turning back in my direction to shake his head after his angry diatribe and point me on my way.
As annoying as it is to be forced off of the easy route every morning, the back roads give me a chance to prepare and relax before I have to start my day. I don't have to worry about people floating into my lane, or slamming on my brakes to avoid sitting in someone's back seat. My biggest concern is trying to quickly get a look at the sky so my Sirius won't fizzle out as much. Truth be told, if I have to choose between intermittent satellite reception or wanting to punch the nearest living thing once I finally exit my car after an arduous highway excursion, I'll take to the woods any day.
The trick now is to just try and keep it a secret as best I can and let the crazies duke it out along their dotted lines.
I always think it's interesting how so many people are trying to progress in the same direction but yet they have no idea how to do it faster than a snail's pace. Some mornings I hit the road and think that through some miraculous turn of events traffic will be both voluminous and simultaneously forging ahead at a steady clip. But then again, I haven't had coffee first thing in the morning in a while now and it might be seriously affecting my brain. Without fail, there is nothing miraculous about traffic these days, except its undaunting ability to morph me into a frustrated mess behind a fist-pounded steering wheel. So in order to avoid aneurysm, I flee the collapsing hoard, that beacon of vehicular incompetence, and take to slower and calmer roads with whoever else decided that the longevity of their sanity was more valuable than a straight(er) shot to their destination.
The back roads are really nice, though. Perhaps even a little too relaxing for those without a healthy dose of caffeine in their system. I slither between sprawling estates with manicured landscapes and scoot underneath bowing canopies that have tangled, over time, to create miniature tunnel systems that mute the sunlight and disrupt my satellite radio reception. I dodge those small plastic signs designed to look like children warning me to drive slow as I pass the country club's tennis court crosswalk. Very rarely is anyone out that early, but the heated tennis court is still steaming off the morning dew in anticipation. There are school buses that slow everything down, but they dip in and out of so many neighborhoods that time spent behind them is relatively fleeting. A few flashes of the red and yellow and they're gone. The traffic cop at the high school recognizes me now and we exchange waves as he motions me to continue. He's got a wild behavior about him that aides in his ability to usher oncoming traffic in multiple directions but not control his temper when disobeyed. He's laced into a few drivers who tested his patience, always turning back in my direction to shake his head after his angry diatribe and point me on my way.
As annoying as it is to be forced off of the easy route every morning, the back roads give me a chance to prepare and relax before I have to start my day. I don't have to worry about people floating into my lane, or slamming on my brakes to avoid sitting in someone's back seat. My biggest concern is trying to quickly get a look at the sky so my Sirius won't fizzle out as much. Truth be told, if I have to choose between intermittent satellite reception or wanting to punch the nearest living thing once I finally exit my car after an arduous highway excursion, I'll take to the woods any day.
The trick now is to just try and keep it a secret as best I can and let the crazies duke it out along their dotted lines.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Monday
I'd say roughly 95% of everyone I drive past in the morning is a vice commutor.
Some smoke cigarettes, some smoke weed. Some drink coffee, some drink redbull, some tip flasks. Some people do blow off of CD cases, some pop pills. Some people masturbate, some... yes, some masturbate.
It takes a while to start recognizing the same people, but after getting to the highway between 7:40 and 7:45 for nearly a year, familiar faces begin to emerge from the crowd. That woman who smokes Parliaments, but bites the paper foreskin off the filter before she does, always gets on at Main Street. The guy who packs a bowl at Park and hits it passing the gas station is there most mornings. He works with computers, I think (or steals monitors and keeps them in his back seat). There's another guy who gets on at 42 who dumps his shiny boot flask into his coffee. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the masturbator is easy to spot once you recognize what's going on.
This trend isn't isolated to a few drivers, either, and that makes sense. These habits help us get through that part of the morning. For me, it's coffee, Howard Stern (with some channel changes during commercials), and the occasional cigarette. Mess with any of that, and I'd be upset about it. That time belongs to me. There are very few instances outside of my commute and my bathroom where time belongs to just me. I fill that hour or so with caffiene, nicotine, and raunchy humor. It's perfect.
I imagine most people are like that. They need those familiar, bad habit, routine elements to start their day. It's their reward for getting up. Or, in some cases, it's a way to deal with what they're getting up for. I could empathize with either view.
Does the woman smoking the cigarettes need them to calm herself down before taking a seat at her desk or waltzing into a meeting? Or is she just bored and that gives her something to do? Does the pot cloud or clear the guy's head? Either would immediately reveal how he feels about his job. Same goes for our boozing friend. And for the masturbator (as if we could forget), maybe it reminds her of the night before, or a night she wishes she could have. Or maybe she just wants to do something dirty with her hand before she punches the clock at the local franchise and keeps it stuffed and suffocated in a latex glove while she serves sandwiches and coffee. In the end, though, it's their time to spend without the need for justifications.
I can understand all of those scenarios. I can because we're all basically the same. We all merge into that giant snake every morning and need something--anything--to do with ourselves before we break off, minutes or hours later, to go about our own business. It's a strange portal, the highway. You get so used to it and its ways, its routine, that you need to separate from it with something of your own. You sip coffee and laugh at the radio. You sing as loud as you can and drum on the steering wheel. You blow smoke at it all. You rub one out. Anything to avoid letting the monotony suck you in and strip you of who you are.
The saddest thing you can see on the road at 8:03 in the morning is someone sitting in a silent car doing nothing at all.
Some smoke cigarettes, some smoke weed. Some drink coffee, some drink redbull, some tip flasks. Some people do blow off of CD cases, some pop pills. Some people masturbate, some... yes, some masturbate.
It takes a while to start recognizing the same people, but after getting to the highway between 7:40 and 7:45 for nearly a year, familiar faces begin to emerge from the crowd. That woman who smokes Parliaments, but bites the paper foreskin off the filter before she does, always gets on at Main Street. The guy who packs a bowl at Park and hits it passing the gas station is there most mornings. He works with computers, I think (or steals monitors and keeps them in his back seat). There's another guy who gets on at 42 who dumps his shiny boot flask into his coffee. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that the masturbator is easy to spot once you recognize what's going on.
This trend isn't isolated to a few drivers, either, and that makes sense. These habits help us get through that part of the morning. For me, it's coffee, Howard Stern (with some channel changes during commercials), and the occasional cigarette. Mess with any of that, and I'd be upset about it. That time belongs to me. There are very few instances outside of my commute and my bathroom where time belongs to just me. I fill that hour or so with caffiene, nicotine, and raunchy humor. It's perfect.
I imagine most people are like that. They need those familiar, bad habit, routine elements to start their day. It's their reward for getting up. Or, in some cases, it's a way to deal with what they're getting up for. I could empathize with either view.
Does the woman smoking the cigarettes need them to calm herself down before taking a seat at her desk or waltzing into a meeting? Or is she just bored and that gives her something to do? Does the pot cloud or clear the guy's head? Either would immediately reveal how he feels about his job. Same goes for our boozing friend. And for the masturbator (as if we could forget), maybe it reminds her of the night before, or a night she wishes she could have. Or maybe she just wants to do something dirty with her hand before she punches the clock at the local franchise and keeps it stuffed and suffocated in a latex glove while she serves sandwiches and coffee. In the end, though, it's their time to spend without the need for justifications.
I can understand all of those scenarios. I can because we're all basically the same. We all merge into that giant snake every morning and need something--anything--to do with ourselves before we break off, minutes or hours later, to go about our own business. It's a strange portal, the highway. You get so used to it and its ways, its routine, that you need to separate from it with something of your own. You sip coffee and laugh at the radio. You sing as loud as you can and drum on the steering wheel. You blow smoke at it all. You rub one out. Anything to avoid letting the monotony suck you in and strip you of who you are.
The saddest thing you can see on the road at 8:03 in the morning is someone sitting in a silent car doing nothing at all.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Friday
The fuzz stole my sunglasses.
Well, they stole my car's sunglasses. I had bought my zoom-zooming Mazda 6s a few years ago as a used car that had been turned in by a lease holder. It was a rainy day, really not the best to be car shopping, but the car really caught my eye. Bright white with dark as night tinted windows. I remember thinking that they couldn't possibly be legal, but I honestly didn't care. The car was sexy and I wanted it. Up until 2 months ago, not a word was said (from anyone with a badge, anyway) about those windows.
As most stories like this go, the police eventually called me out on them. I blame the economy and their need for a quick and easy buck. The officer carefully strutted up to my driver's side window with his hand on his gun and the flashlight in my eyes. "Sorry, I can't tell if there's anyone else in there." I could already tell where this was going. He checked the tint level with a little electronic device that measured how much light would transmit through the glass. He told me they were "13," which was always my lucky number, and thus horrendously illegal. However, he said that if I removed them, I could easily get the ticket thrown out in court. Begrudgingly, I removed them myself and now have to deal with this new sensation I'm experiencing.
I feel so naked. I mean, I'm not a highway mastubator or compulsive nose picker, but I feel like all of my in-car privacy has been stripped away. People look at me now. That's the really big part of it. People would look before but I could tell that they were just trying to see what was inside, but to no avail. Now, they look at me and it's so strange to look to my side in rush hour traffic and meet the gaze of some person staring right back at me. I've lost my on-road anonymity and I don't like it. It's much more disturbing than I thought it would be. My first car didn't have tinted windows at all, so I thought nothing of it when people would look. But having driven a car that offers complete and utter privacy for three years and then losing that, it just feels strange to have this exposure. I also want to note that this is not some vain narcissism, an "Oh! Everyone is looking at me!" type of thing. People look at you when you drive. Not all the time, but enough that it gets awkward in slow rush hour traffic.
The sun, too. Jesus! When did the sun get so bright? When I lowered myself into the driver's seat and shut the door on the clearest blue day in the middle of summer, it was as if I had entered a 220hp cave with satelite radio. It was comfortably dim. I still wore sunglasses, but only when facing directly into the light. Otherwise, they were unnecessary until I ventured out into the world again. Now, I have to wear my sunglasses when it's a bright cloudy day. If I don't, I squint worse than Mr. Magoo.
I have to say that the only benefit I've experienced so far is that I can see better out of my side windows at night. Nighttime walkers and bikers, rest easy for now, for I can see you better than I ever have. Just a reminder, though, I'm getting the darkest legal tints that money can buy as soon as I can get an appointment to do so. So don't throw away those flashy reflectors yet. You'll need them.
Well, they stole my car's sunglasses. I had bought my zoom-zooming Mazda 6s a few years ago as a used car that had been turned in by a lease holder. It was a rainy day, really not the best to be car shopping, but the car really caught my eye. Bright white with dark as night tinted windows. I remember thinking that they couldn't possibly be legal, but I honestly didn't care. The car was sexy and I wanted it. Up until 2 months ago, not a word was said (from anyone with a badge, anyway) about those windows.
As most stories like this go, the police eventually called me out on them. I blame the economy and their need for a quick and easy buck. The officer carefully strutted up to my driver's side window with his hand on his gun and the flashlight in my eyes. "Sorry, I can't tell if there's anyone else in there." I could already tell where this was going. He checked the tint level with a little electronic device that measured how much light would transmit through the glass. He told me they were "13," which was always my lucky number, and thus horrendously illegal. However, he said that if I removed them, I could easily get the ticket thrown out in court. Begrudgingly, I removed them myself and now have to deal with this new sensation I'm experiencing.
I feel so naked. I mean, I'm not a highway mastubator or compulsive nose picker, but I feel like all of my in-car privacy has been stripped away. People look at me now. That's the really big part of it. People would look before but I could tell that they were just trying to see what was inside, but to no avail. Now, they look at me and it's so strange to look to my side in rush hour traffic and meet the gaze of some person staring right back at me. I've lost my on-road anonymity and I don't like it. It's much more disturbing than I thought it would be. My first car didn't have tinted windows at all, so I thought nothing of it when people would look. But having driven a car that offers complete and utter privacy for three years and then losing that, it just feels strange to have this exposure. I also want to note that this is not some vain narcissism, an "Oh! Everyone is looking at me!" type of thing. People look at you when you drive. Not all the time, but enough that it gets awkward in slow rush hour traffic.
The sun, too. Jesus! When did the sun get so bright? When I lowered myself into the driver's seat and shut the door on the clearest blue day in the middle of summer, it was as if I had entered a 220hp cave with satelite radio. It was comfortably dim. I still wore sunglasses, but only when facing directly into the light. Otherwise, they were unnecessary until I ventured out into the world again. Now, I have to wear my sunglasses when it's a bright cloudy day. If I don't, I squint worse than Mr. Magoo.
I have to say that the only benefit I've experienced so far is that I can see better out of my side windows at night. Nighttime walkers and bikers, rest easy for now, for I can see you better than I ever have. Just a reminder, though, I'm getting the darkest legal tints that money can buy as soon as I can get an appointment to do so. So don't throw away those flashy reflectors yet. You'll need them.
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