I didn't exactly enjoy my 50-minute commute to and from work each day in Ohio, but I did have it down to a science.
I left home at exactly 7:42 a.m. to get to my desk by 8:30. It was a long, boring drive (after I got out of our subdivision, the drive involved exactly two turns), but my radio routine helped to pass the long minutes.
In the morning I would listen to my favorite radio station and Columbus' lone alternative option, CD101. On the way home, I'd flip the channel to NPR for All Things Considered (or, if I got off a bit later, Marketplace).
I don't miss the drive, but I do miss the radio. Now I rarely listen in, and my knowledge of new music is nearly zilch. But what I really miss most is the ability to sing.
Don't get me wrong-- I am absolutely, positively a horrible singer. But in the privacy of my own car, no one knows that.
Even in our house in Galloway I would crank up my MP3s and belt out a few tunes when Paul wasn't around to get annoyed. In the close quarters of our current six-family apartment building, however, I am much too embarrassed. And besides, our downstairs neighbors are likely already annoyed enough at us since the cats tend to knock something heavy onto the floor at least twice a week.
In any case, my blooming career in music has been put on hold for the last two years-- to everyone's relief, I'm sure, except for me.