I'm about to drive up to Phoenix. Thanks to the wondrous hospitality of a friend, I've been staying up there on Monday and Wednesday nights so that I can avoid the brutal early-morning commute of last fall. The strange thing, though, is that I'm actually more reluctant to go at this time than when I'm rushing out the door with the knowledge that five minutes squandered can mean thirty minutes of extra stop-and-go traffic at the other end of the journey. Maybe that will change, as I settle into my routine. At the very least, this new schedule is good practice for most of my possible futures. I just wish that the time spent on the interstate would feel shorter than it does. Somehow the knowledge that dawn would greet me en route sustained me last fall in a way that the monotony of white-line fever does not.