She was...An American Girl

Currently: pleased to be home

When I travel for work, I'm the youngest person on all the teams. Most of my travel partners are nice about it, though one of my colleagues was adorable enough to repeatedly address me as "Hey, trainee!" in front of clients. However, during trips it is made patently clear that I am the junior partner and my schedule is always at the mercy of others. I don't get to decide where we go or when we go; where we eat or when we eat. I don't get to say when we are finished, I don't get to set the pace (Now, most of this doesn't bother me. I am, after all, in training, but...), and mostly, I don't get to drive.

Actually, I don't mind not driving (except on twisty, hilly roads that lead to death by nausea), so much as I mind not being allowed to drive. It takes me back to my teenage years when I had to be constantly schlepped around by adults. Try as I might to fight it, I have totally bought into the American ideal of "owning the open road." As long as I am behind the wheel, I have at least a semblance of control and freedom. My car is my castle and in it, I can follow any path to self-determination.

So, after traveling, my true moment of homecoming is when I flop behind the wheel in Dulles long-term parking (after taking the parking shuttle, after waiting on baggage claim, after taking the terminal shuttle, ugh!) and let the leather and the oh-so-perfectly-adjusted-to-MY-body-and-no-one-else's seat cradle me for a sweet, meditative moment. The engine purrs, my presets blare, and once again, I am mistress of my own destiny! (Once, when I was sitting there, I thought to myself, "Mistress of my own density!" and thought it would be a great title for a book someday.)

Note: The pop music stations, especially the country station (which I miss so, because I wouldn't subject anyone else to that) really s*ck at 2 AM, exactly the time you need some boppy, belt-it-in-the-car cheer to carry you home...