The more things change...

...the more they stay the same.

As you can see, the look of the blog has changed. Just a little, but hey after five years of the same old polkadots (which were supposed to resemble thumbtacks, and reflect the URL - did anyone catch that? Anyone?), I bet it made at least one person sit up and take notice (Hi Vic!). I would love to tell you that I changed it because I wanted to go with the times, better reflect my personality or the direction of my writing. But I can't. You see, I just got tired of seeing that blog archive on the right side of the page, telling me I had only posted three times in August. Three! So I moved the archive, and then one thing led to another, and before you know it, you have a REALLY orange blog. Let's see if I decided to keep it.

Anyway, in spite of the new look (and the now less conspicuous location of the blog archives), nothing else has really changed. I haven't blogged in almost two weeks because our fall semester started August 19, and even though I only teach two class now (thanks to the same awesome project I was on last semester), and this is my seventh time starting a new academic year, I still get caught up in the quagmire of late registration, students that need to be added and/or dropped, attendance verification, syllabi, book orders, and other drama that just won't go away no matter how much I plan. And so while three, four years ago I would still find the energy to blog, I must be getting old, because driving home and crashing on the couch/in the pool is about all I have the energy for these days. Plenty of ideas, and plenty of blogs written inside my head while driving to work, but once I get to said work, my creativity is poured into fixing schedules, explaining my attendance policy in ten different ways (to the same student), writing grant proposals, and preparing conference presentations. You know how people tell you things get easier with time? Well, they do, but why don't those same people tell you that as things get easier, people will notice and pile more work on you and so then while your work may still not be as hard as it was at first, there is not just so much MORE of it, you're about to lose your head anyway.

Ahem.

In spite of all of that, I have been able to come to one blogworthy conclusion this week: I am sick of driving. I know, it's a miracle it only took me six years of driving 180 miles per day to get sick of it, but there you have it.

It started when I backed into a lamppost two weeks ago. I was dropping a colleague off on the other side of campus, because I "was on my way home anyway, and it is way too hot to walk anywhere", and I can't say no. Eager to get myself home and into a pool, I backed up, ready to turn, when a lamppost decided to rudely impede my progress. The lamppost was fine, I was fine, my car has a small dent on the bottom of the bumper. And you know what? No one cared, including me. Campus police didn't care. Husband-dear said the car was old and he didn't care. And I, the winner of the type A personaly award four years in a row, didn't care either. Never backed into anything, never caused an accident, never dented or dinged my car through my own fault. Backing into a lamppost should have caused a major meltdown, but it didn't. I just didn't care. Car, schmar.

When I lived in the Netherlands, I used to get so sick of having to deal with transportation. Taking your care into town to shop would have been ideal, but really made no sense since the traffic would be horrendous, there would be no parking spots anywhere, and if there were, you'd have to do a 29-point turn to get in it, and pay a small fortune for an hour's worth of parking. So I would ride my bike, with its enormous bicycle bags piled full of stuff, bags hanging off my handlebars, or if it rained I would brave the ridiculous bus schedule to navigate my way into town that way. Getting anywhere outside of town meant carefully weighing the options between possible traffic delays, parking dramas, and public transportation scheduling nuisances. I remember yearning for a place where you could just get in your car, drive somewhere, and find a free parking space. I would fantasize about it while riding my bike home from the grocery store with twenty pounds of groceries dangling off my bike frame. I would imagine how wonderful it would be to just get in your car and drive off while waiting for a delayed train on a rain-soaked platform.

And then I moved to Georgia. At first, all was glorious. I loved being able to get in my car and go. My town, in spite of its shortcomings, does not really have any traffic issues (base traffic has nothing on a good old-fashioned German stau). I loved having free parking and having lots of it. I loved the empty interstates, the curving highways, the fact that a 90 mile drive really only took about 90 minutes. I loved not having to worry about rain messing up my hair or my nice clothes, and being able to come and go as I pleased.

But you know what? I am so over all of that. I am tired of people's inability to use a blinker or take a turn without crossing over into the other lane (or swinging out to the left to make a right turn - I mean, really, people?). I am done with people (I'm looking at you Florida!) who hog the middle lane on the interstate at 60 miles per hour, or those who pull out in front of you while you're going 55 miles per hour. I'm tired of people passing on the right, of semis driving way too fast, of the endless road construction. I'm over people on their cellphones staring off into space, people who forget their car came equipped with side and rear view mirrors, people who have no sense of distance or space, or when the use of hazard lights is appropriate (hint: a drizzle isn't it). And if I have to navigate one more parking lot where all of these problems appear to meld into a big giant accident-waiting-to-happen (and that only didn't happen because I look out for all those pulling out or in without looking, driving the wrong way, or randomly pulling out in front of you), I may just stop the car, get out, and throw a tantrum. 

Obviously, I can be over this as much as I want to be, there's really nothing I can do about it. The fact is, I live 90 miles from my job, and if I want a paycheck, I will need to get to work. Which means driving, which means navigating all of the above and more.

So, Americans, and Georgians in particular, I am begging you: LEARN HOW TO DRIVE. Watch some youtube videos. Check that old driver's instruction manual. Don't think of the stalks next to your steering wheel as things that get in between you and your coffeemug, or your mirrors as a friendly aid for your morning make up routine. Don't think that because you've been doing it this way for thirty years, it's fine. It's not. It only appears to be fine because those of us who do look out, know how to use our lights and mirrors properly look out for you. But we're about done with that. So put that phone away, turn the radio down, stop worrying about the size of your rims or the engine under the hood, and drive.

Thank you.

In the meantime, I will be riding my bicycle to our local grocery store, heat and bugs be damned.