I hate driving.
Well, not exactly. The mechanical act of driving - the ritual of
entering the car (pivoting on my left heel as I slide into the
driver’s seat, dumping the contents of my pockets onto the
passenger seat, straightening the seat belt strap against my chest,
queuing up a song on my iPhone), the gentle turns and adjustments I make
to the steering wheel, the rush of acceleration from speeding away as
the light turns green - is fine, fun even. I don’t bike, so I
assume the feelings that I associate with driving are what cyclists
feel, only more muted and disconnected. The joy of going fast, of seeing
the world rush by as you move faster than you ever could on your legs.
But ignoring the less fun parts of driving, such as navigating
unfamiliar roads or assuming that everyone doesn’t know to look
over their shoulder when they change lanes, my main source of
unhappiness with driving stems from guilt; specifically, the guilt that
I’m emitting greenhouse gasses, or GHGs.
When I drive, a voice enters my head as I’m sitting in traffic,
watching as cars line up like dominoes, that admonishes me for my
stillness, my laziness, my part in contributing to global warming, only
fading away as I finally pull into my destination and do whatever it is
I need to do. As cringey as those words sound, it’s something that
I think about a lot as I plan trips outside my house. Tribble Mill Park
is chosen over Harbins Park because it’s five minutes closer, even
though the latter is much bigger and has more trails to explore. Publix
is chosen over a liquor store farther away for my beer runs, even though
the selection could be better and I’m still stuck with the
knowledge that I could have walked or cycled the mile to and from there,
if I really wanted to. How much this imaginary leash that I’ve
tied around myself stems from my general emotional maladies, rather than
my global warming qualms, is unclear though, and in the grand scheme of
things, a 2005 Forester that gets its tank filled once every three weeks
isn’t doing shit. It’s the 100/70, the nameless businesses
and corporations whose actions are beyond my control, that are the
reason why spring feels like summer and summer feels like hell. And yet
what are these companies comprised of if not people? Are mothers and
fathers struggling to eke out a living day to day, driving their
vehicles to and from their jobs, exempt from my armchair reflections?
When I still used TikTok, there was an account that I subscribed to that
posted videos of cute kittens spouting nonsensical jabs toward modern
society, and the only quote I really remember is “the industrial
revolution and its consequences has been good for my 401k.” I
think about that a lot, albeit in a different way - are the current
luxuries that I have, the laptop that I’m using to type this
entry, the multiple aquariums in my house, the abundance of food with
origins far, far outside my home state, worth it? Would I be happier if
I didn’t experience these joys, knowing that I have the moral high
ground and that whatever follows in the coming years has nothing to do
with me? Or is that just setting myself on fire to keep others cold?
As I order stuff from Amazon and browse 4chan and other websites to keep
my dopamine receptors fried (which emits GHGs, if you didn’t know)
and plan my vacations to the U.S. Virgin Islands and Japan, the days
steadily become warmer, and as I feel the heat entering through my car
window as I’m sitting in traffic or hitting my back as I’m
out on a run, all of the above leads to me think that I, personally, am
responsible for a billionth of the extra warmth that I am now feeling,
that other people are now feeling, that the world is now feeling. And
whether that’s true or not, I think this small but persistent
feeling of guilt will only get worse in the coming years until it
becomes an albatross around my neck as the world goes to shit - but at
least at that point, I’ll take comfort in the fact that I, for
once, won’t be alone.