I read in the NYTimes earlier this week that a person’s irrational fear of driving on highways (irrational because it turns out that highways cause fewer deaths than, say, taking your car for spin to the store down the block) may be triggered by the driver's lack of control over when to exit that endless ribbon. The sign telling you the next exit is in twelve miles? Informative to you and me, a trigger for a panic attack in a phobic driver.
Lack of control. Hmmm.
This morning, up early: long class in the morning, shorter class in the afternoon. Both still need touches. Clock moves dangerously close to 9. Run to catch the 9:03.
Out. Up hill, in doors, in office, briefly, oh so briefly, seconds only. Lipstick on, hair brushed, seating chart under one arm notes and book under other.
This is the day when there is no time for an espresso run.
Late. Bus home. Walk to condo.
For a second. Change garb, put on lipstick, walk down the hill to the shop.
Doesn’t it seem to you that this is a highway with too few exits? Sure, I know, the destination is wonderful, the scenery is mind boggling, fantastic.
But where are the damn exits already?