Start your engines, crotch the coffee

What’s the opposite of heaven? Well, that’s where you’ll find the guy who’s lucky enough to not only work nights but still commute during rush hour.
It’s not that unlikely of a scenario. I’m sure I have co-sufferers. You are familiar with the saying “It’s happy hour somewhere.” Same goes with rush hour.

I live in Grosse Pointe and work in Mount Clemens. I head off to work at around 4 p.m. and take Eight Mile Road to my beloved Interstate 94. Truth be told, in this blog more distain than praise will be heaped on that ancient artery.

As I merge onto 94 I join a race in progress. It’s like a relay race. I almost expect that a fellow driver might hand me a baton.
I merge, accelerate to the pace of the crowd and generally try to act like I’ve been driving with them the whole time. No one likes late arrivals. If it’s a race then I feel like one of those marathon runners who hops on the subway and rejoins the front of the pack.

I am joining drivers who, for the most part, work in Detroit and are headed home to some far-flung suburb. They’re not afraid to drive a bit. Maybe they live some place you’ve never heard of. How about Clyde Township? I have a co-worker who lives there. You should visit him. He and his far-flung neighbors are having a war. I’ll just say this: The war involves mailboxes, snowmobiles and guinea hens.

I don’t want to go to war with my fellow drivers. I do not have my game face on. I am, however,  leaning over and messing with my satellite radio. And I am repeating my mantra: These other drivers should realize that I am in more of a hurry than they are. They are going home to kiss the dog and pet the wife. I am special. I am headed to work.

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