Saturday I had planned to enjoy a nice little evening in. My mom went to a surprise birthday party for one of her relatives and so I was left in the house, flopped on the couch dreaming about getting up and actually doing something. I accepted an impromptu invitation for coffee with a friend - well, not coffee actually because it was already 9:00 and I have only slightly more tolerance for caffeine than my 70-year-old grandmother - and got up the energy to carry on a conversation for an hour and a half at Starbucks.
Everything was fine until I left Starbucks.
I drove home to find that my mother was still not home from her party at 10:30 and, hoping to avoid walking into my dark empty house alone, decided to drive around a little bit. Some background: I used to drive around a lot, back when gas was cheaper and I had more things to ruminate about in the comforts of my car. I would visit places I used to go, or places I knew other people were, or maybe sit in the parking lot of a park with Death Cab for Cutie on and think and be and feel oh so sorry for myself.
Saturday night I put the windows down and did my best to fill half an hour. As I drove around, for the first time on one of these drives I avoided the places I used to go, as if to say, hopefully, "I don't ever need to go back." At first I sang. Then I stopped singing without noticing. Then I turned off the radio. I thought as I arrived in the darkness of Dutch Mill on the East side of 141, why not speak? Why not talk to myself here in this car when I am most alone? Why not talk to God? So I did. I don't remember now what I said. I do remember being a little distracted by the road and thinking it wasn't quite the ideal place to have a conversation. But it helped. Weidman Road gets scary in the dark.
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