it's not my imagination

I’ve been thinking, folks, now that I am a solid 15 posts into this little blogging trek, that I may just be a little b*tchy in the morning. It struck me that maybe it’s not the commute after all, but rather a serious case of under-caffeinated, evening-showered, bagel-deprived stinky morning attitude. (I hang my head in shame.)

But then again, maybe not.

Apparently, it’s a scientifically-verifiable completely-objective fact that in addition to being extreme by mileage and duration standards, my commute is shared with folks from THE TWO STATES WITH THE WORST DRIVERS IN THE COUNTRY! (see this Huffington Post link)

I take absolutely no ownership in this problem – I learned to drive in the 39th worst state and learned to text while driving in the 17th worst. So CLEARLY it’s not ME.


So reassuredly it’s not just the fact that my overgrown layers won’t fit into my uber-professional ponytail without enough bobbypins to alert the entire TSA, nor is it the fact that I’m down a coffee machine and am slurping powdered chai out of my Bubba Keg rather than the silky French Vanilla Green Mountain Coffee that I so desire, nor is it that Super Yummy Boyfriend is still in bed looking so warm n’ cozy when I have to leave…and is still there…where I want to still be…for most of my drive.

Nope, it’s none of these personal problems keeping me from enjoying life’s daily little journeys. It’s that for 1/8th of my day, I’m in the company of people who want to kill me. And that’s bound to make a gal feel a little bit crabby.