Dear J-
The whole back end of the van in alive with noises this morning, some of them my fault (there’s a gentle clicking that I know must be some of the extra hardware that I’ve added and could stand to come off), some of it is getting used to the new van (they swapped out our 2008 van with 40K miles for a 2009 van with 40K miles, essentially proving that there is no free lunch), and some of it is the nature of the trip: for this wheelbase, weight, and suspension tuning, the freeway between San Diego and Carlsbad sets up an almost resonant rocking motion. Yes, I already knew I had too much time on my hands, but what should I do about it?
Part of this time could be spent fruitfully studying, I suppose; there are no doubt any number of non-fiction titles out there for me to discover, but unless they involve sunken ships, I’m afraid my attention span isn’t what it used to be. I dunno. Part of me gets up so early because I need to for the vanpool, but the estra time is just gravy, I guess — there are long stretches in the morning when I don’t say a word to anyone because I feel like I’m the only one awake in the world, though theVet has surprised me on more than one occasion while I’m reading the newspaper and woolgathering.
I actually remember the first time I got up early for myself, and it’s not a great memory: that conflicted summer of ’98, we’d gotten up before I had to go to school and some petty argument (it’s a wonder that love under the age of, say, 25, has a chance at surviving the egos) sent me marching towards the door just after six, bus pass in hand with a silent vow to stew all the way there. By the way, public transportation is an excellent service for introverts — they’re the ones staring out the window — and extroverts (on their phones) alike now, but before the ubiquitous cell phone, they were the best way I knew to be alone in public. For some reason there’s an unwritten rule on the vanpool that quiet time is reserved for the mornings; maybe that’s our nature, or just our lack of caffeine.
Mike