It takes 18 minutes for me to drive to work. In those minutes I am oblivious to the world beyond my comfort class seating. I crank the radio, I sing as if no one's watching, I belt out the hits like I can carry a tune. I talk back to the radio, I answer the DJ's rhetorical questions. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel with gusto and throw my head back for the high notes. I laugh from my belly. Occasionally I blurt obscenities at the top of my lungs at idiotic drivers and shout instructions to the vehicularily challenged.
Inside my sound proof booth on wheels I let it all out. No one can hear me, no one knows what I'm saying (unless they can lip read at 60km/hr)
Today I wondered what I must look like to those just beyond my factory tint windows. I know that I must look incredibly foolish. If there were in fact a camera recording my 18 minute mental health break it would be first class, grade 'A' YouTube viral material. I realize it, I just don't care. Those 18 minutes do more for me than hours of therapy ever could achieve and well, if in the process, I provide a stoplight's worth of humor and entertainment for some other frantic soul that's just a bonus.
I must express my gratitude for street level therapy. For the record, I also appreciate and am grateful beyond measure that there are no recording devices in my vehicle.
