A Crossroads

I have barely curved around the bend before I am forced to slam on the breaks again. Profanity flies out of my mouth like a knee-jerk reaction, and I wonder if this isn’t hell. It sure feels like it. What with all the miserable souls packed into one place, waiting for the end in sight that does not ever seem to appear. The funny thing is, we do it to ourselves, really, and that is the irony of it. We are the creators of our suffering. The makers of our own hell.

I find myself bumper to bumper with the car in front of me, and I peer over their roof in horror at the crawling traffic that awaits. It spans the length of the bridge into downtown like an infestation of hamsters trying to make it to the wheel. I wonder how many of us are just in it for the cheese. If I was a betting woman, I would say most of us. Not that there is anything particularly wrong with that. I mean, if I am being honest, that is what I am in it for. Although, I want nothing more than to get off this ride. To stop chasing the prize that I don’t even really want. But it is not about what I want anymore. It is about need, and I need to bring home the cheese just like the rest of these hamsters.

Beyond the congestion of the highway, sits the monstrous, glass-cloaked office building where I spend much of my daytime, stretching forty-two stories tall. It is intimidating, the way it looms over the city. Almost dominating it. Every Sunday, my palms get clammy just thinking about having to drive up to it the next morning. Not knowing what it will have in store for me that day. And it is not just Sunday. It is Monday night, Tuesday night, Wednesday night, and Thursday night too. Yet there is nothing as nerve-wracking as actually being in its presence.

My desk still sits in the same spot it was when I used to marvel at the city from the clouds. At some point, I came down from those clouds and the scenery lost its luster. Facades came crumbling down and misconceptions were revealed. Now, when I look out those windows, I see something else entirely. Something I don’t like.

A honk startles me. I look to the left and then the right for a way out before succumbing to the reality that I am packed in here like a sardine, and there isn’t a darn thing I can do about it. Tired of fighting a futile fight, I rest the back of my head against the seat and sigh in frustration. I am defeated and it is not even 8:00 a.m. I was hoping to at least make it to lunch before sinking into this hole. This very dark, broken-in hole.

What am I doing here? I ask myself. What is the point of all of this? Now, that is the question. It runs through my head over and over again on an uninterrupted loop, begging to be answered. Sometimes I worry that I am the only person in the world haunted by this question. The only person troubled by the response. And I admit, it is starting to make me a little crazy.

The truth is, I know the point, but I do not want to accept it. Accepting it means giving up hope for a different way of life. A way of life where I do not work solely so that I can afford to live and yet, all that working prevents me from living. The contradiction is not lost on me. But I still believe that there must be a way in which it could be different. There has to be.

It is not just about the lost time, although that is nearly unbearable too. It is the moments the time brings that should be reserved solely for a mother to cherish that I may never get. The first steps and the first fall. The first laugh that comes deep within her belly and the first tears that come from the place in her heart she has been too young to unlock yet. It is the next wide-eyed discovery and the next lesson-baring mistake that I should be there for, holding her hand through it all. Alas, bills must be paid, food must be purchased, and college must be saved for.

The conga line of cars inches forward, and the black sedan to the left of me is slowly replaced by a white SUV. With nothing else better to do, I sneak a peek at my new neighbor, curious about who else has put themselves in this wretched position, and I am immediately intrigued by her.

Not that I am ever good at guessing this, but she looks to be about early-thirties. Her hair is impeccably in place, and from what I can tell, she is dressed in that perfect zone between polished and casual. Yes, she looks admirably sophisticated, like someone my younger self would have aspired to be. But it is not her per se that catches my eye. It is what is behind her. A landmark that signifies so many things and yet it uncovers only the tip of the iceberg. It is a car seat, very similar to the same car seat anchored to the seat behind me.

That must mean only one thing: she is a mom, just like I am. And from the car seat, I can assume she is a mother of a young child. From the get-go, we already have two things in common. And normally, those two things would have been enough to make me feel a kinship with her, but it is the third thing in common that intrigues me. That makes me want to know her. To sit down over a cup of coffee and ask if she is tormented by the same things that keep me up at night. If she feels as isolated as I feel. For no one would be trekking into the city at this hour unless they were going to work. And no one would have those grimy handprints covering their car windows unless they had someone too important at home to go to work for.

Yes, she is a working mom, like me. And perhaps that term isn’t quite right because every mom is a working mom, but there is something drastically different about motherhood when you toil away outside of the home during the daylight hours, rather than inside of the home. It is a lifestyle that can only be understood by those that have had to carve their hearts from their own chests and leave it beating elsewhere, day in and day out.

I start to speculate about how old the child who the seat belongs to is, how long she has been doing this working motherhood thing, and if she is happy. There is a part of me that desperately wants her to be happy because that would be a shining light in this tunnel of darkness. Some hope that I too will be happy someday. Although, I fear that I will never be. After all, how could I ever be happy when I spend my days doing something I don’t love?

That’s it. When I boil it down, that is the ultimate problem. Spending my days doing something I don’t love, all the while wishing I could be with the ones I love. I don’t think we were meant to live this way, with ties around our wrists and holes in our chests.

I turn to wordlessly ask her what she does for a living, but I see that our paths are breaking apart, separating us as my exit approaches. For a split second, I keep my eyes trained on her car and watch as she disappears behind the concrete walls. I wish her luck and turn my attention back to the ramp I am climbing, to the crossroads ahead.