@ June 3rd

Driving on the Mass Turnpike is like being stuck in a bad marriage.

Turbulent flow. Physics. The problem with the Massachusetts turnpike, if analyzed from a pseudo-scientific standpoint, is its two fundamental characteristics: 1) three lanes 2) erratic driving styles and 3) bad roads. If, for example, there were road signs that asked for slower drivers to pull into the right lane, as is done in New York and many other New England states, then perhaps we'd see self-organization similar to laminar flow. Unfortunately, three lanes further complicates the lack of mandated organization.

I won't complain further about this, save to say that by not having a more configured thruway, the pike is at a heightened risk for accidents, traffic jams, and daresay deaths.

If analyzed from an emotional standpoint, driving on the mass turnpike is a lot like the moment when you realize you're stuck in a dead-end marriage. Mind you, I've never married, but I have read enough novels with married characters and listened to enough fiances to understand the fears imbued and lost in marriage.

I know you. You're a small green Volvo sedan. I've been driven off the road by cars like you, dust and dirt flying up, churned up by my wheels. I've been hurt before.

I can only change lanes as easily as I can change topics, divert our conversations to distract you from the laundry, the kids, our retirement. I'll worry about that later, just as I'll eventually build up the courage to drive the car to the shop for an oil change. The damn lighted icon always catches your attention from the passenger seat, but I couldn't fucking care less. What's the worst that could happen? I'll pull over when smoke builds up the courage to erupt, with melodrama, from the hood, obscuring my view of the road and for a moment, forcing me to drive with my instincts alone. Just as I'm sure I'll reassess my life when you leave our house for the the final time. Forever.

I think I'd like that.

You're a green Volvo. Sedan. I find you boring, in the rare moments when I am serious with myself. Mesmerizing is the quality I tell myself you possess when I am trying to prove that I'm in love with you. A constant, looping mantra--spoken into rearview mirrors, recited in reverse, committed to memory through carwash. Yet even still, I don't know if you have a V6 or V8. We've been stuck in traffic now for some time. I can't even remember how things got this way. Was it that first time you cried or was it rubbernecking another car's crash?

You slow down. I speed up. I don't think we're going to crash, but I don't trust you anymore, so how the hell would I know? You've almost merged into me twice now so I keep my distance. Still, I'm mesmerized. In the cars behind me I can feel drivers growing anxious if I don't stay close to you. I'm disrupting traffic. It's worrisome.