I can see for miles and miles and miles...and it sucks.

Driving sucks. I should know. This past weekend, I spent over 9 hours in my car, traveling a measly 380 miles. I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time going not so very far in my entire life. Plus, do you know what is impossible to do? Blow your nose with one hand while you’re driving. Thankfully (she said sarcastically), the traffic gods brought the 101 South to a screeching halt at regular intervals to accommodate my nose blowing needs (did I mention I also had a cold?). At one point, just outside of Carpenteria (which, by the way, I thought was CARPETeria—“WOW, what a difference!”— until I was well into the double digits), it took me almost an hour to go 7 piddly miles. In all, a commute that usually takes a little over 3 hours, finally ended after more than 5 hours on the road. How do I know? Because when I left the clock in my car read 1:11 and I figured I could be home by 4:44. Sadly, I wasn’t even near home until 5:55.

Lord knows, I do NOT want to ever get back in my car again, much less DRIVE anywhere.

I don’t know what happened. I used to LOVE to drive. When I first got my license, I would drive to Gelson’s (which, for those of you who aren’t aware, is literally across the street from my house) just to be behind the wheel. I’d gladly pilot any family excursion, no matter how short or inconsequential, even if it was just to Santa Monica. In my group of friends, I was the designated driver. I’d make mixed tapes for every possible driving occasion, and saw my car as merely an extension of my living room. I ate in my car. I slept in my car. I loved my car. Driving was my life.

And then one day, something changed. Well, to be completely forthcoming, it was the two or three year span of time when I was forced to drive to and from Paramount Studios every day. That drive could kill the spirit of even the most dedicated driving enthusiast. Sure, you’d think cruising down Sunset Blvd. every morning and night would be a blast, watching the neighborhoods evolve from single family homes to mansions to the flashy strip clubs to bustling city streets…but, yet again, you’d be wrong. Maybe the first few times it was nice, but the novelty wore off all too quickly as the spots on Sunset where traffic tends to jam became more and more like landmarks on the journey into and out of the seventh circle of Hell.

The traffic on Sunset is no joke. I could usually make it to Brentwood without too much trouble, but once within a stone’s throw of the 405 it was all stop and go for miles. And sometimes, that slow moving crawl would stretch forever, through UCLA, past the Beverly Hills Hotel, right through to the Roxy and the Whiskey and the Hustler Store, and on down to Gower where I, mercifully, could turn right. Not that Gower was ever any better, but at least I was only a few miles away from work. After 12 or 13 hours at work, I’d get back in my car and do the whole thing over again, but in reverse. It was a dark time in my driving days.

You know, driving wouldn’t be so bad if there weren’t other cars on the road. I blame them. It never ceases to amaze me how terrible other drivers are at operating a motor vehicle. You’d think that driver’s licenses were given out free of charge to whoever happened by the DMV, and not a “privilege” you had to take a test to earn. I know you understand, because we’ve all seen them, the “bad” drivers. Heck, admit it, you’ve even BEEN the bad driver once or twice, haven’t you? Oh, y’know, sitting at a green light because you’ve neglected to notice it’s changed while you were checking your email on your iPhone (or popping in a new CD, or fumbling around in the backseat for your Chapstick/sunglasses/water bottle). But still, as forgiving as one may attempt to be of these little infractions, it takes a heavily sedated person, or a nun, to not get at least slightly irritated and have the uncontrollable urge to toot, or lay on, your horn.

Aside from the bad drivers being a nuisance, there’s also the threat of real danger and bodily harm that they pose. Take it from someone who’s been in one too many car accidents, there is no sound more frightening than that of crunching metal and steel. This thought crossed my mind as I was speeding across Las Posas Rd. at 55 mph, and I realized the only thing between me and the on-coming traffic was a faded yellow line. I had mistakenly watched THIS video at some point last week, and the images of a head-on collision at such a high rate of speed had me hoping I’d be killed instantly on impact if one of the Eastbound drivers decided he needed whatever was on the floor of his backseat that very instant…and drifted a few inches over the line into my lane. Instead of being deliriously happy that I was actually going over the posted speed limit for the first time in over 200 miles, the British version of “Red Asphalt” kept playing on a loop in my mind and the portent of doom overshadowed the rest of the drive.

I am home, now (Praise Jesus!), and I have no plans to drive anywhere in the near future. Still, I am left with one niggling question…where does traffic come from, anyway?

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