For many sixteen-year-olds getting their license for the first time, a car feels like freedom. Freedom to go where they want whenever they want. But lately, to me, cars have felt like tiny metal prisons. I count the start and end of my days by crawling into my car for 20 minutes and bearing the task of sharing the highway with hundreds of other cars who all have the same mechanical issue of not being able to reach the speed limit. There was once a time I looked forward to driving; high school me couldn’t wait to get into my six-speed manual sedan and run through the gears on the backroads. I may have been going a little faster than I should have, but I was young and had my version of a Ferrari. I used to look for an excuse to get in my car and drive, and now I look for any excuse not to.
I’m not sure what changed. The destinations remained the same, school, work, and home. But something about the journey has started to sour my view of commuting. Maybe it’s the increased price to fuel those journeys. Or the fact that my beloved stick shift has been replaced by boring SUV. I feel more and more like a soccer mom with every passing day. Whatever the reason, it’s a necessary evil. After serving my 20-minute prison sentence on Interstate 43, I get to break free from my Chevrolet cell and see my fiancé, who has no idea of my personal hell I just endured to see her. And getting to see her smile at the end of the day makes those seemingly hour-long drives worth it.