Friday afternoon was like too many have been lately: stuck in traffic, on-and-off rain, snaking my way along the interstates to my sweetheart’s on the weekly three-hour pilgrimage one of us makes each week toward the other.
I had passed the three-hour mark and wasn’t at my destination. Night was falling. I had listened to the three podcasts of my favorite NPR show that I had downloaded to keep me company. I turned to NPR on the dial. They were having a pledge drive. Ugh. Shadows encroached. Did I mention it was raining?
Time for some tunes, I thought. I put in a CD. It skipped. I hooked up my phone to listen to it: female singer, enough catchy drum beats to be pop music, enough guitar riffs and clever couplets to be “real” music.
And then it happened. Traffic let up and I was cruising down the highway, belting out whatever came through the speakers. For a few minutes, the drums and the guitar and the bass made me unstoppable. I could look autumn in the face and not turn to stone. I could eat whatever I wanted. I was singing, I was loud, I was powerful. Even though the wind in my hair was purely metaphorical (did I mention it was raining?) it was refreshing.
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