Driving like grandma

Learning to love the city will never happen for me. All it’s bright lights, smoggy haze, beggers, bangers, tight spaces and I can’t ever seem to find a parking spot. People are always in a rush to get to somewhere and I feel like I’m just moseying on along in my old truck, wondering what the hurry is all about. Your not going to make it far with the stop lights every mile and a half anyhow. How is there still such an abundance of traffic on the eight lane highway dotted with super-everything-shopping centers, coffee shops and work establishments?

The claustrophobia is intense. The street lights reach down with their long giraffe necks and stare at me with one eye, constantly wondering where it is that I am going? Towering buildings lie on the edge of the black sea of asphalt and I can’t help but think how many stairs are in there. Instead of marking a mile across earth, we can now mark things vertically. Just what I want, more room for people to look down upon me. They must be pretty disappointed they can’t open their windows and get a fresh breeze way up there.

The silence is muddled with roars of car tires and the occasional scream of a siren that lets me know their is more unwanted disturbances somewhere near-by. I remember a time when a homeless man killed another for 30 bucks and a pair of old worn out tenny runners. Left his body on the edge of a retention pond like the trash that accumulates around the brush. 30 bucks and worn out shoes? Maybe karma came back and gave him a foot fungus.

I am sure the city has many beautiful things, but they are sparse. Even finding the natural beauty in your yard is hard because the background of cookie-cutter houses, reckless kids running around, and the dog peeing on the fire-hydrant there in the corner of your luscious green tall fescue ruins the foreground like splattered paint. Can I just see one 100+ year old oak tree still surviving? Some thick evergreens? How about a patch of grass that hasn’t been covered up with concrete? Can a girl go to the local watering hole without there being a mess of other people looking to wet a line and drown a lure?

I remember when the only bottle neck you knew of was on a beer, not during rush hour.

“You can take a girl outta the country, but you can’t take the country outta the girl.”


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