Addicted to the Road

There’s plenty I could be doing right now instead of blogging. I’ve actually been putting off my homework for 24 hours now (perk of having class Monday, Wednesday and Friday) because last night I had to watch the season finale of Bachelor in Paradise with my mom and today I had the opening shift at Hickory Pit then I was consumed with crafting for my little. You see where my priorities are… I’m definitely a 19-year-old sophomore in college.

Now this post is clearly far more important to me than my homework. The things that need to get done always do one way or another, but the things you love – those are the ones you have to make time for.

The idea for this post came to me when I was driving home from chapter on Monday night. Mondays are the longest day of the week for me (and probably just about everyone else) because I have 5 classes and chapter that night with a few hours in between to study (catch up with good friends).

I’ve always loved going on drives. Always. It’s been a definite part of my life no matter what. It’s consistent. It’s familiar. It’s safe.

I remember my parents taking me on drives as a little girl who couldn’t fall asleep, jazz music playing in the background (I listen to jazz when I study now). And I also remember a dream (but maybe nightmare at the time) that repeatedly flooded my imagination.

Now that I’m officially this prospective English teacher/writing guru hybrid, analysis of anything and everything is completely acceptable, right? Well, I’ve always done it, regardless of if it’s acceptable or healthy, and this dream I’m referring to is so fun to analyze (can you tell I don’t go out anymore?).

The dream isn’t long or elaborate or even colorful. It’s pitch black and it’s just me, alone in a moving vehicle, but I’m not driving. All I can see are the lights speckled on either side of the highway, seemingly moving backwards as I dart forwards. Where am I going?

I’m not scared, just concerned. And the voices coming through the radio (a man and a woman) won’t tell me where I’m going when I ask; they just say that I’ll be okay.

And that’s the dream.

The first time I connected my childhood dream to real life was my senior year of high school when I snuck out on a school night for the first time ever, something my mother has since come to expect and accept (I make my most important life decisions in the middle of the night). Driving down the highway, alone, pitch black, speckled lights flashing by, someone I trusted telling me I’d be okay… I was living my dream.

I’ve thought about my dream often since that night, and I’ve realized that my dream is symbolic to my life. I’m moving, always moving, and I’m not the one in control of where I’m going, but something always tells me that I’ll be okay. And goodness gracious, I love the road. I love riding into the sunset and trudging into the sunrise on a new day, covering endless miles every hour in between.

My grandfather is a famous drag strip racer in Kansas City; so perhaps driving is just in my blood. It’s funny – good ole Delon Joseph actually took us out to dinner tonight. I suppose that’s why this post had to wait until tonight rather than last night to be written.

Do you ever think about how many times in your life you’ve truly been happy and said it out loud? I know what my number is: one. And that’s been recent.

Any time I’m asked anything relating to my transfer, I can’t help but say how happy I am. And I mean it. “I’m happy” is the one phrase that expresses how I feel about it all. I somehow made it to where I am today in a lot better shape than I feel like I deserve. How can I not be happy?

Commuting could easily be a burden, and I know there will come days when it really will be, but I really look at it as time to reflect on being where I’m meant to be and trusting that I’m not the one in control.

I’m on the road, going places, and maybe I’m addicted, but there are worse vices to indulge in. I would know about that too, and I can tell you one thing: I wasn’t happy then like I am now.


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