In a word, Chicago.
When you tell someone you live in Illinois, the first response is, “Oh, Chicago?” And then you try to explain that no, you're from the middle part, around the capital—Springfield—and that you’ve only been to Chicago a handful of times in your life….and then you usually end up trailing off around there as you watch the interest quite visibly drain from the person’s face.
As a lifetime resident of Not Chicago, I thought I was used to driving long-distance for such basic necessities as decent wages, movie theaters, and pizza not purchased from the same place where I fuel up my car. Yet, I seem to have myself settled in a nice little groove here in my small town, hooked on to Springfield, which is maybe not the vibrant cultural destination I wish it to be, but it at least has a grocery store within five minutes of my house.
Without going into a lot of boring detail as to WHY I chose to drive my daughter to the next county for swimming lessons, suffice it to say it didn’t seem like that long of a drive to me. I used to drive 45 minutes to my job EVERY DAY. I thought I was used to commuting.
Now that I’m committed to several hours of writing every morning, I see how such a commute really kills any motivation to write. Or do housework. Or socialize extensively. Or—really—to do anything at all, because driving—just sitting in a car, mind you—really wipes me out.
I’ve hardly written at all for the past two weeks. Thank goodness swimming lessons are over. My daughter is swimming like a fish. She’ll be starting school in just over a week. And I can get back to my routine, which involves sitting at my computer, living in my imagination and not in my car.
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