Albatross

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.