Everyone in our office was excited for President's Day weekend. It was a welcome break in the middle of an onerous and frigid February, and Valentine's Day candy was on sale at Duane Reade.
I was not excited. I was working that weekend. I had to go to Jersey to get my car, drive to Albany, then drive to Ithaca for personal matters.
I had not driven since my back injury.
And now I was binge-driving.
On Friday evening, we received notice that we could head out slightly early. As I was heading to New Jersey, I ran around the office, tripping on wires, stuffing my letters in envelopes, talking to folks on my headset (I looked like I was running around screaming "ma'am"), and still could not manage to leave before 6. It began pouring rain when I stepped outside, and I lugged my bags and spare shoes to the corner, where I hailed a cab. It took one hour to get to Penn Station, usually a fifteen minute ride. I almost slammed into a small child when I opened the cab door, threw a handful of bills into the front seat, and ran to the ticket guichet, where I stood on line for forty minutes.
Apparently, Jersey has become a choice travel destination.
Finally home, and after bonding with my parents (monthly ritual) for a few hours, I decided to look up directions to the convention center that was hosting the Congressional Black Caucus, the event I was to attend. Literally at the 11th hour (it was close to 11 pm), I discovered that this place had no street address. I emailed some colleagues late at night, and prayed (desperate times call for desperate measures) that someone would hear my pleas for help. I woke up the next morning to no new emails. I was to drive to Albany on a prayer.
I set off with a hearty breakfast of eggs and fruit, and after about 15 minutes immediately realized I was lacking coffee. I felt inebriated by the dearth of caffeine, but was afraid to be late (especially since I had no idea of my destination). I drove in misery, and three hours later, after finally figuring out the address and getting lost and seeing a mirage of coffee fields, I made it to the convention center. I strategically parked far from the entrance, noticed the number "3" on the wall, and walked briskly to the convention. I was on time.
The only coffee available was that of McDonald's.
After I cried to members of the caucus, passersby, and into my phone, I did my job (and spilled McDonald's coffee on my grey blazer).
My friend was coming to Ithaca with me, and so I was to pick him up from the Bolt bus stop after my event. By that time, I was without solid coffee, starving, and shivering (the coffee on my suit never seemed to dry) and thus in a horrendous mood. I was to drive some of my colleagues back to their hotel, and so we headed towards the parking garage. There were four different levels. "Rucha, where to?"
I blanched. "Um, try 3."
We went down to 3. Each level was also split in half, and so I checked the north section, where I was pretty certain I had parked, and looked for my car (it's actually Manu's car, so losing it was even more frightening). It was nowhere to be seen. I ran back to the elevator, while one of our directors wearing painful high heels limped behind me, and I tried all the other floors. The car was just not there. My team ran behind me as I frantically searched for the silver Toyota. I feared I imagined driving into the parking lot, since I had become weak from the lack of caffeine, and double checked my pockets to make sure I had the parking pass.
I was close to tears (no, really, I was just that hungry). I ran back to level 3, and searched again. And there, in a spot I may have (definitely) overlooked when I searched the first time, I found my car. I breached the professional code of conduct and jumped into the embrace of my colleague.
After dropping off and picking up and driving around aimlessly to discover Albany (during which time there were fears my iPad may have shattered, a stuffed rat Beanie Baby was actually real, and I had pneumonia or lung cancer), I was ready to go to bed. And then my parents called me. "Beta, your insurance expires at midnight tonight. As of tomorrow, you have no insurance. Don't worry though."
Tomorrow came. Too scared to drive four hours to Ithaca, my friend and I went to brunch in Albany, instead. To make up for the previous day, I nervously chugged four cups of coffee, and packed up half of my potatoes and tofu scramble. As I was blowing bubbles into my water, in successful attempts to delay getting back on the road, my father called and confirmed that the insurance snafu had been resolved. (Daddy to the rescue, again.)
My father's parting words were, "Even though this is resolved, the card in your car is still outdated, so please please please adhere to speed limits, watch the road, and don't do anything crazy." I scoffed (I never do anything crazy), said good bye, and hung up the phone.
In two hours, I was pulled over for a speeding ticket.
I have never in my life received a speeding ticket; in fact, I have never in my life gone over the speed limit. I'm usually under. I'm that slow driver everyone abhors. I'm the one who gives women and Asian drivers a bad name. It's me. But, the windy roads upstate rapidly alternated between 55 mph and 30 mph, and I was usually going 40 (much to the dismay of the growing queue of cars behind me). As I hit the brakes to slow to 30, the cop, who was patiently waiting for me right next to the speed limit sign, turned on his lights and pulled me over.
I started blubbering. And then I proactively handed him my expired insurance card. "Sir, hold on, do you need this?"
My friend wanted to take the wheel for the rest of the drive (something about my "emotional instability") but I instead had him shout out the changes in speed limit just in case I didn't notice. (And then I got angry about the subsequent backseat driving).
I was still in disarray when we stopped for gas. I noticed a car wash in the back of the station, and, because I was so stressed out, I decided to treat myself with a traditional car wash (I don't do manicures). I had never before been in one, and always wanted to since I was a little girl, when I would watch Corrina, Corrina with my mother.
We drove the sparkling car to Ithaca, where we first stopped at Buttermilk Falls. It was incredibly silent, absolutely still. It was so cold in Ithaca that the water was at a stand still, hanging in mid-air like long icicles barely reaching the dense pool of floating ice below. There was no sound of babbling brooks or thunderous falls or children splashing, as everything had frozen into tranquility. We heard only the sounds of silence.
We quietly walked back to the car, which, we discovered, also froze into tranquility. Some of the water from the car wash must not have dried before we got back on the road, and so the doors and trunk were frozen shut. We manually pried everything open with our numb fingers, and then clambered back into the frigid car for some semblance of warmth. I ate cold tofu scramble leftovers to warm my insides, and when that didn't work, stuck my hands under my butt.
I got lost several times on my drive home, the day after. For three hours, there was nothing on the radio but Taylor Swift, and so I became disoriented and drove off the highway several times, in search of other radio towers. With some luck and Dunkin Donuts coffee (it makes a difference), I managed to get myself back to New Jersey, where my mother greeted me with questions of my mortality. "Beta, you look terrible. You look like you're dying. Eat. No, eat more."
And so I ate. And I warmed. And amid the conversation and my loud chewing, I desperately sought that moment of tranquility, the sounds of silence that rendered immobile the waterfall and the frenzy and the ennui. And I couldn't find it.
I was not excited. I was working that weekend. I had to go to Jersey to get my car, drive to Albany, then drive to Ithaca for personal matters.
I had not driven since my back injury.
And now I was binge-driving.
On Friday evening, we received notice that we could head out slightly early. As I was heading to New Jersey, I ran around the office, tripping on wires, stuffing my letters in envelopes, talking to folks on my headset (I looked like I was running around screaming "ma'am"), and still could not manage to leave before 6. It began pouring rain when I stepped outside, and I lugged my bags and spare shoes to the corner, where I hailed a cab. It took one hour to get to Penn Station, usually a fifteen minute ride. I almost slammed into a small child when I opened the cab door, threw a handful of bills into the front seat, and ran to the ticket guichet, where I stood on line for forty minutes.
Apparently, Jersey has become a choice travel destination.
Finally home, and after bonding with my parents (monthly ritual) for a few hours, I decided to look up directions to the convention center that was hosting the Congressional Black Caucus, the event I was to attend. Literally at the 11th hour (it was close to 11 pm), I discovered that this place had no street address. I emailed some colleagues late at night, and prayed (desperate times call for desperate measures) that someone would hear my pleas for help. I woke up the next morning to no new emails. I was to drive to Albany on a prayer.
I set off with a hearty breakfast of eggs and fruit, and after about 15 minutes immediately realized I was lacking coffee. I felt inebriated by the dearth of caffeine, but was afraid to be late (especially since I had no idea of my destination). I drove in misery, and three hours later, after finally figuring out the address and getting lost and seeing a mirage of coffee fields, I made it to the convention center. I strategically parked far from the entrance, noticed the number "3" on the wall, and walked briskly to the convention. I was on time.
The only coffee available was that of McDonald's.
After I cried to members of the caucus, passersby, and into my phone, I did my job (and spilled McDonald's coffee on my grey blazer).
My friend was coming to Ithaca with me, and so I was to pick him up from the Bolt bus stop after my event. By that time, I was without solid coffee, starving, and shivering (the coffee on my suit never seemed to dry) and thus in a horrendous mood. I was to drive some of my colleagues back to their hotel, and so we headed towards the parking garage. There were four different levels. "Rucha, where to?"
I blanched. "Um, try 3."
We went down to 3. Each level was also split in half, and so I checked the north section, where I was pretty certain I had parked, and looked for my car (it's actually Manu's car, so losing it was even more frightening). It was nowhere to be seen. I ran back to the elevator, while one of our directors wearing painful high heels limped behind me, and I tried all the other floors. The car was just not there. My team ran behind me as I frantically searched for the silver Toyota. I feared I imagined driving into the parking lot, since I had become weak from the lack of caffeine, and double checked my pockets to make sure I had the parking pass.
I was close to tears (no, really, I was just that hungry). I ran back to level 3, and searched again. And there, in a spot I may have (definitely) overlooked when I searched the first time, I found my car. I breached the professional code of conduct and jumped into the embrace of my colleague.
After dropping off and picking up and driving around aimlessly to discover Albany (during which time there were fears my iPad may have shattered, a stuffed rat Beanie Baby was actually real, and I had pneumonia or lung cancer), I was ready to go to bed. And then my parents called me. "Beta, your insurance expires at midnight tonight. As of tomorrow, you have no insurance. Don't worry though."
Tomorrow came. Too scared to drive four hours to Ithaca, my friend and I went to brunch in Albany, instead. To make up for the previous day, I nervously chugged four cups of coffee, and packed up half of my potatoes and tofu scramble. As I was blowing bubbles into my water, in successful attempts to delay getting back on the road, my father called and confirmed that the insurance snafu had been resolved. (Daddy to the rescue, again.)
My father's parting words were, "Even though this is resolved, the card in your car is still outdated, so please please please adhere to speed limits, watch the road, and don't do anything crazy." I scoffed (I never do anything crazy), said good bye, and hung up the phone.
In two hours, I was pulled over for a speeding ticket.
I have never in my life received a speeding ticket; in fact, I have never in my life gone over the speed limit. I'm usually under. I'm that slow driver everyone abhors. I'm the one who gives women and Asian drivers a bad name. It's me. But, the windy roads upstate rapidly alternated between 55 mph and 30 mph, and I was usually going 40 (much to the dismay of the growing queue of cars behind me). As I hit the brakes to slow to 30, the cop, who was patiently waiting for me right next to the speed limit sign, turned on his lights and pulled me over.
I started blubbering. And then I proactively handed him my expired insurance card. "Sir, hold on, do you need this?"
My friend wanted to take the wheel for the rest of the drive (something about my "emotional instability") but I instead had him shout out the changes in speed limit just in case I didn't notice. (And then I got angry about the subsequent backseat driving).
I was still in disarray when we stopped for gas. I noticed a car wash in the back of the station, and, because I was so stressed out, I decided to treat myself with a traditional car wash (I don't do manicures). I had never before been in one, and always wanted to since I was a little girl, when I would watch Corrina, Corrina with my mother.
We drove the sparkling car to Ithaca, where we first stopped at Buttermilk Falls. It was incredibly silent, absolutely still. It was so cold in Ithaca that the water was at a stand still, hanging in mid-air like long icicles barely reaching the dense pool of floating ice below. There was no sound of babbling brooks or thunderous falls or children splashing, as everything had frozen into tranquility. We heard only the sounds of silence.
We quietly walked back to the car, which, we discovered, also froze into tranquility. Some of the water from the car wash must not have dried before we got back on the road, and so the doors and trunk were frozen shut. We manually pried everything open with our numb fingers, and then clambered back into the frigid car for some semblance of warmth. I ate cold tofu scramble leftovers to warm my insides, and when that didn't work, stuck my hands under my butt.
I got lost several times on my drive home, the day after. For three hours, there was nothing on the radio but Taylor Swift, and so I became disoriented and drove off the highway several times, in search of other radio towers. With some luck and Dunkin Donuts coffee (it makes a difference), I managed to get myself back to New Jersey, where my mother greeted me with questions of my mortality. "Beta, you look terrible. You look like you're dying. Eat. No, eat more."
And so I ate. And I warmed. And amid the conversation and my loud chewing, I desperately sought that moment of tranquility, the sounds of silence that rendered immobile the waterfall and the frenzy and the ennui. And I couldn't find it.
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