radio karma saved the morning commute

This morning was the first "ohmigod its so freeking cold why the hell do I live in this godforsaken state" morning of the season. Generally, this makes me a little edgy.

Added to the bitter, shocking cold of the morning:
1) I haven't had the time or forethought to brew coffee. Which means I venture out into the arctic wasteland this morning completely un-caffeinated. frown.

2) My little person refuses to wear her adorable, kid-friendly red polarfleece hat, even though tendrils of white-blonde hair are snapping off as she trudges through the snow-crusted backyard. grrr.

3) I desperately need to finish my last project at work before I am done in this position and move on to my next adventure. And though I know it'll get done, on some emotional level, I feel like the other shoe will drop at some point in time and it will not get done and my name will be marred forever as "the instructional designer who was almost stellar... but not quite." blah.

So, after much wrestling about with the tiny blonde defiant one, giving up and buckling her stuffed cat into the seat next to her so she'll quit screaming, "No no mama, language! Kitty need be buckled!", then shivering behind the wheel of the car, feeling the car idle and whine as it protests the cold and early hour, I sit there grouchily, willing the frost to melt from my windshield so I can get my day started (note to self: stop at Target today for an ice scraper).
After an eternity of watching the frost melt (don't I live a life of utter excitement), we finally lurch into the alley and on to our respective Thursday destinations.

We have previously established the fact that it's cold as a witches' titty in brass bra outside. I have almost forgot about these polar conditions til I get to the highway. Which is stopped dead. Why? No accidents, no stalls. Just this: it's cold, and somehow, this affects the general population's ability to drive more than 25 miles per hour.

So, there I sit, southbound stalled, frowning menacingly at the sun, which is cheery and fake on the outside and ice cold in reality, just like Brittany or Jessica or Ashley or whatever your high school cheerleading captain was named. And we plod along like we're all waiting to get our driver's liscenses renewed, a giant line to get to somewhere we don't really want to be anyway, and I cannot help but do what I do when I am bored: listen to loud music and peoplewatch.

I see the blonde soccer mom next to me, middle-aged and late to her destination as well, with her mouth in the signature "o" as she applies mascara and talks either to herself, someone I cannot see through the minivan's tinted windows, or a hands-free cell phone unbeknownced to her fellow commuters. In front of me: Grandma and Grandpa in a taupe Buick. Grandpa is wearing a gray fur cap -- the one you see in every Siberian scene in James Bond flicks -- and Grandma has her blue hair covered with one of those plastic hair thingamabobs. I realize there's a generational difference here -- I wouldn't even know where to get one of those plastic hair thingamabobs, even if it meant life or death.

Some suit in a black lexus with the liscense plate "IWIN" cuts me off across three lanes so he doesn't miss his exit. I hit the horn, just because it summarizes traffic this morning. Jerk.

Mama, language!
Sorry, Paige.

We're finally past 55 and moving at speeds worthy of a spedometer. Fast brakes -- likely some other overpaid, self-absorbed jerk needing to cut across three lanes of traffic somewhere ahead of me. After narrowly missing the bumper of the black VW Bug that has since merged in front of me, I sit back and take it all in. I can see down the highway, and it is median to median cars. And then R.E.M's "Finest Worksong" comes on Drive 105, and nothing says, hey, let's make the best of an otherwise rotten commute, than my own personal Michael Stipe sing-a-long. So we crank it up, I say, "Paige, let's jam for a minute, OK?"
"OK, Mama." and she proceeds to headbang. I love being a parent.

So, I'm bellowing like the in-car rockstar I am... and as I look in my rearview mirror, and there's some similar-aged guy in a black Camry doing the exact same thing I am. Freezing his tush off, white-knuckled in stop-and-go traffic, singing at the top of his lungs to an old R.E.M. tune because the radio is the only thing handing out good karma today.
Very nearly simultaneously, we both realize that we are rocking out to the same tune. He smiles; I wave. I get off on Glenwood and the day suddenly has new life breathed into it. Maybe it is because misery loves company; maybe it is because it was so humanizing to realize that there was someone else just like me out there, just trying to get to his neighborhood coffeeshop and office at a reasonable hour. Whatever the case, radio karma saved the morning commute.