What Am I Doing Here

Friday Afternoon, when I got off work, I was stuck in “traffic” on Bodega Avenue.  Now, traffic is relative here because, as most people know, I work 8 miles from my house down a two lane country road that winds through West Sonoma County to the coast.  It’s not the 405 on a Friday afternoon.   But the speed limit is 55 MPH and when I have places to be, i.e. home or work, I expect the people I share the road with to adhere to that speed limit.  It’s just a courtesy. 

I cursed the driver of the blue Accord for maintaining a speed 13 miles under the posted limit as I had done no less than six other times last week.  “What the fuck, bro?” I yelled to myself, as if the driver could hear me.  “Move like you have a purpose!”  It was then that I remembered that my only purpose was to go home and crack a bottle of wine and pack for a five day trip to Hawaii.  It wasn’t as though my purpose was going to be thwarted by getting to the house three minutes later. 

I got home on Friday, sipped on a glass of pinot and pulled out my suitcase.  I let it sit there for about an hour before I even made an attempt at packing.  As I folded tank tops and sun dresses, I wondered what I was doing.  A last minute trip to Hawaii isn’t a thing that I do.  I don’t buy tickets, then ask permission.  There are things that I do.  Spontaneous is not one of those things.  I asked myself again “What am I doing here?”  I guess I’m going to Hawaii.

I work up on Saturday morning, still not completely packed and a little hazy from the Saki I had at dinner the night before.  I looked at all the crap I had draped over the suitcase.  I thought about the drive to the city to get to the airport.  Then I thought about the security lines and the assholes at TSA.  And what is on the floor at the security checkpoints?  Thousands of people, daily, standing around barefoot.  There’s no way to clean that.  Surly there’s a flesh eating bacteria in there and I would likely lose my foot to MRSA by the time I even got off the plane in Lihue.  Again, I asked myself “What am I doing here?”  But the ticket was bought.  I had people waiting for me.  My out of office assistant was on.  I’m going to Hawaii. 

I asked myself the same question over and over in the 11 hours between the time I parked my car in long term parking and the time I got off the plain in Lihue.  When I was stuck in line at LAX in the middle of 20 douche bag frat boys.  When I paid $18 for a really embarrassing attempt at a burrito.  When I was pinned in a window seat surrounded by fighting, farting siblings who would not have stopped kicking my seat from behind if I offered them a million dollars and a trip to Disneyland.  The intolerable Scandinavian lovers in my row wouldn’t knock it off with all the touching and talking in that abrasive Nordic language. The 12 inches of leg room in front of me that I was robbed of because reclining seat backs.  Through all of that, I kept asking myself the same question:  “What am I doing here?”

By the time I got off the plane, got my luggage and made the 58 minute drive from the airport to Wainiha, I was too tired to ask the question anymore.  I sat down and had a cigarette, then without enough care to even change my cloths, I feel asleep in the treehouse to the wind rustling the ti trees and the crickets welcoming back. 

When I woke up this morning, I was on California time, two hours before everyone else.  So, I made some coffee and took a chair down to the river.  I sat in silence as I watch the sun come up over the Wainiha Valley; I listened to the river make its way to the sea.  And that’s when I finally realized it.  This.  This is what I am doing here. 

-Inner Peas