Musings outside my head

Why is it such a frightening prospect to look in my rearview mirror and see only darkness?

Is it because I grew up in a densely populated small town and am not used to it? Is it because I am largely skittish about all things I cannot control? Is it because it is some literary metaphor for my empty past?

After seven years spent living in and around the center of medium sized midwestern cities, I suddenly find myself in a fairly rural part of suburbia. It's nice to be in a land where deer pop up in the strangest places and people are serious when they say not to out your trash out too early because it might attract bears.

There are trade offs for this luxury. My commute is a bit longer than some of my colleagues' (though not as long as the woman who comes from Wilmington, Delaware every day just so her son can stay in the Delaware Military Academy...). It is long enough that I must remember to set my coffee pot up at night so I have hot caffeine in the car with me. I'm a much calmer driver after my morning coffee.

Some services are harder to find out here, too. We have a whole bunch of furniture we want to get rid of and can't find anywhere to donate it. It's good furniture, we're just trying to declutter. But the nearest Goodwill is nearly an hour away.

Then, there's the fact that I keep finding myself on dark windy roads bordered by towering colonial mansions and vast expanses of farmland. I'm a compulsive rear-view mirror checker. Like I've seen one too many spy movies and think I might be followed. But on these roads, all that compulsive checking just reminds me that I'm alone on a dark, windy road. And it's unnerving.

Or it's a reminder that I'm nearly 30 and still haven't managed to take over the world.