So … I’ve been pretty bad on this whole writing thing lately. I’ve estimated that the first step of my editing process, hitting F7 to get the easiest errors, will take 15 hours. I can’t bring myself to commit that much time to one task yet. I’m still decompressing to having a nearly three-hour commute for about five months. I’m basking in not exactly having to do anything for a few hours before work. I’m luxuriating in not having to cram all of my tasks into my weekends. I’m savoring getting home before my wife goes to bed.

I purchased gas a few hours ago. The last time I filled up the tank was in March. I think my longest trip since we moved to Albemarle County, not including a trip to Orange County for a dinner, was 11 miles. (And that was because I had forgotten a geographic quirk in Charlottesville and chose a road that took three miles to get within a half-mile of my point of origin.)

Anyway, I’ve been avoiding writing, editing and reading outside of work for a little while now. And it needs to stop. It’s been more than enough time for me to recuperate. It’s just that having lazy moments after being on the go so long has felt so great. I mean, I took work ethic to the extreme — I wrecked my car on the way home from work in January, did not make it home and still went to work the following day. I also nearly was in tears in early February because my longest extreme commute was really, really, really starting to get to me. But, if I’m still kinda sitting here, wasting time by the time my birthday rolls along I need swift kick in the ass. Ninety days to recoup is enough.

Notwithstanding decompression, I’m going to hit my 24th state before I turn 35. I count states visited when I get out of the car or venture beyond an airport. That’s the only way Rhode Island counts. And Mississippi. And Kentucky. And West Virginia. If you count sleeping in a state, I’ll only hit 18 (seventeen, if you don’t count passing out in a car in Kentucky). And my total is 21, if you count states in which I’ve driven. I drove my previous car, Nicole, in 17.

I’m a little excited about hitting 24 states. I’m certain I won’t have a direct flight to Nebraska, so I’m hoping the layover is in a state I’ve already visited; I don’t want to have an asterisk beside Illinois or something until I get around to getting beyond fare control. (I know the proper term is “airside,” but I like the rail nomenclature.)

Well, I’m more than excited.

Ever since I was at an age that “ever since I was a child” didn’t sound clichéd, I wanted to travel. I’ve always wanted to drive the entire length of Interstate 64. Of the primary freeways, I’ve done all of interstates 12, 66, 78, 83, 85 and 97, as well as the discontiguous pieces of 99. Of interstates 95 and 81, I only have New Hampshire and Maine (not including the future contiguous piece through New Jersey) and north of Scranton to go, respectively. I’m also proud to say that I have lived in the cities at both ends of U.S. 258.

My grandparents (and, to an extent, my parents) lived in a time when it wasn’t safe to travel. Hell, some people say today isn’t much safer. I refuse to be bound by fear. I love that I can say that it’s a shame that my favorite restaurant is in New York and my favorite bar is in Miami. And that I’ve eaten at the (in)famous Stinking Rose in Beverly Hills, taken a selfie at the edge of the Grand Canyon and had jambalaya in a spot for locals in New Orleans.

I refuse to be bound.

Do not allow yourself to be bound.

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