This week we drove home from our vacation. Monday morning we went north to a Getaway near Mt. Vernon for two nights, one of which was more eventful than I would have liked. On Wednesday we drove to Seattle for two more nights, which had its own adventures. Today we drove home.
I am also going through Massimo Pigliucci’s A Handbook for New Stoics, to get back to the basics of the philosophy. This week the challenge I undertook was to test my patience, as I have noticed my natural patience levels being strained. Waiting for anything is not a part of popular culture. We are promised the ability to order coffee from home and have it ready when we pick it up. During the COVID shutdowns we didn’t have to deal with traffic most of the time. We can watch “any” show we want “any” time we want if we subscribe to the right seventeen thousand streaming services that now cost as much as crappy cable does. I have always struggled with impatience. I have several bad habits related to my lack of patience. I finish other people’s sentences when they hesitate, for example.
One of Murphy’s Laws states that bladder pressure is proportional to the distance to your front door. When you have a three hour drive home, that pressure can kick in an hour before we actually got home, and that hour was extended by a stop for lunch at one of our favorite spots that we don’t get to frequent often. That doesn’t help the pressure of just wanting to be home after four nights away.
Seattle traffic is usually rough, and Portland traffic is hopeless, but for several miles north of Vancouver the Interstate I could set the cruise control to 70 and get passed on both sides by angry Washington plate drivers. The slowdown over the I-5 Columbia crossing for the traditional reason[1]that is, no good reason. only made the impatience worse. There is the general wish that teleportation was possible, which would of course make the whole drive pointless, but it is the last leg of a journey, and all we want near the end is for it to be over.
It’s not like we had days of driving. I think the drive up to the Getaway was only four hours, and we’re used to six hour drives to Ashland with a nice stop in Eugene once or twice a year. It was not a long drive, and we really only drove on Monday, Wednesday, and today (Friday). Well, I drove. Stephanie had an unplanned adventure to a market for first aid supplies. A day trip on Tuesday barely counts as driving, really. We were not exhausted from being in the car, or traffic, or out of podcasts or audiobooks. We were just done with being away from home.
It was not the first time I had felt impatient during the week. On Tuesday we drove to Skagit Bay to walk the Craft Island trail. It was only 1.2 miles out and 1.2 miles back. About three quarters of the way back we were done. Not back at the car, just done.
There is something about almost being done with a thing that drags time to a halt. I don’t know why it works. Maybe it’s entering familiar territory. Maybe it’s not having to second guess which lane you’re supposed to be in[2]Washington roundabouts are vicious things. Maybe it’s having a number in your head[3]but still probably wrong that tells you how long it will take to get home. Or maybe it’s just your body sensing a familiar and comfortable toilet nearby.