Well, you know what they say about getting what you wish
for. Over one hour into the drive from DCA airport up 295 to Route 50 for the
roughly 65 mile trip, I’d traveled less than eight
miles. After another hour…I covered approximately ten
additional miles. At some point there was a digital sign over the
expressway that read “Bay Bridge 24 Miles – Travel Time 86 Minutes.”
Now…I’m no math whiz (and judging by the red line that appeared under the word
whiz when I tried writing
it four times as wiz…I won’t be spending
much time on the stage in National Harbor either), but if there was anything to the accuracy of the
sing, my anticipated 90-minute leisurely drive was going to take me a minimum of about 3 hours and 30 minutes. Thankfully
my lack of calculation prowess revealed itself again…as I pulled into my
destination parking lot 4 hours and 8 minutes later.
I rarely used profanity when I moved to the District of
Columbia about 9 ½ years ago, and I never used any that began or included the
letter F. Never. Now, fully entrenched in the big city East Coast culture
where I’ve heard professionals use the F-Word in formal meetings, I routinely use curse words for every occasion. I may have even found
a way to weave it into greetings like “Happy (expletive deleted) Holidays” and
such, so my four-plus hour bumper-to-bumper
slog along Route 50 provided me with the perfect opportunity to work through multiple renditions of my four-letter
repertoire (had to actually look that word up after trying to spell it 10
times). Ironically though…despite the frustrations associated with the
snail-paced commute…I don’t believe I uttered one swearword. There were
multiple opportunities too. I could have screamed an appropriate word at time
or two when some jerkoff cut me off, or shared my displeasure with a
well-meaning colleague that texted me a “shortcut” that wound me around the
scenic Naval Academy that I’m convinced shortened my travel by an additional
thirty minutes. Though he called several times to check my deteriorating
status, I was cool as a cucumber throughout each conversation.
When I pulled into the parking
lot off the long tree-lined winding driveway that provides access to the
sprawling pastoral bayside property, I could actually feel my body
decompressing. I suspect the soothing sounds of Seriously Sinatra helped prime
me for the evening…but walking into the room full of denim wearing sportsmen
and sportswomen relaxing and chatting after the camaraderie that comes from an
afternoon of rural outdoor activity, I could actually feel my heartbeat slow
down. It reminded me of the feeling I get when I hop of my bike and saunter
into a roadside café in South Dakota each August, or for that matter, the same
feeling one would get if they ever ventured outside the beltway to just about
any of the red area that dominates most of the map between the Atlantic and the
Pacific Oceans.
I was only at the Eastern Shore
event about 90 minutes total…so it was pretty hard to fully assimilate. I still
stood out like a sore thumb in my slacks and ironed golf shirt, and while most
were drinking long-necked ice-cold Anheuser Busch products, I still couldn’t
fully shake my metro-cool and skipped up to the bar for a room-temp glass of
Cabernet.
Despite the nightmarish drive,
it ended up being a rewarding epic evening and I’m glad I honored the promise I
made to a friend to be there. As I sat around laughing with colleagues
and meeting new business contacts, there was a general sense that life was
good. Several of the normally workaholic people I spoke with talked about the
almost immediate decompressed feeling that came with “just being outside,” and
as you eavesdropped on the laugher and pleasant conversation throughout the evening,
it was crystal clear most in attendance were enjoying an absolutely wonderful
time.
What’s the f-ing point of all
this? Don’t know really, but presume I’m more just trying to fill space as part
of my regrettable self-imposed obligation to pound out this sh#tty weekly blog.
It could also simply be the best I could come up with between sets at zero four
hundred on a Friday morning…or it might suggest there’s some correlation
between Frank Sinatra’s music and the need to use profanity. It might
mean it would behoove us to all invest in satellite radio, or that if we have
satellite radio, we all need to turn to channel 71…or at least spend some time
over at Willie’s Roadhouse on channel 56. It might mean that for every ten
trips we make to some exotic European city like Paris…we need to take an unsexy
domestic flight to some town like Peoria. Maybe it just means I need to exert a
little more effort to curb my increasingly foul mouth…or it might just mean we
all need to turn on the radio…and take a drive. Preferably…on some two-lane
road…well outside the beltway.
It’s f-ing Friday…so have a
wonderful weekend. If you can, please do something that will last the test of
time. Spend some time with the people and pets that matter most. Sit on a porch
in a rocking chair, chat with some friends, enjoy an ice-cold longneck and
listen for the distant unmistakable sound of a slamming screen door. It’s
summer, and it’s time to take advantage of the healing that comes from simply
“being outside.”
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