A Day in the Life.

Sometimes, a moment's experience helps me recognize and appreciate the bigger picture.

Picture this: 

It’s 9:40 on a Tuesday morning. Rain falls from the sky in pelting sheets, turning the roads and highways into a greasy, grey oblivion. I’m on the Capitol Beltway, in the slow process of heading south from Tysons Corner to my job in Old Town, Alexandria. The tiny pellets of rain hitting my car sound like 1,000 little fingers tapping steadily on its aluminum and fiberglass exterior. The car’s de-fogger is set to “high” in a sad attempt to fight the steam creeping up the windows, but produces little results save for the calming white noise of its fans.  

I’m moving at a determined 60 miles per hour, passing most of the nearby drivers who remain at a more cautious 50 and 55. My stereo is quietly playing “Mr. Bojangles” by the famously earthy Nina Simone, the perfect rainy day song – slow, steady, and nostalgic. I’m a little nervous about making it to the office on time to a 10:00 meeting, but the song relaxes me. Nina Simone’s voice is rich, baritone velvet. She sings, 

I knew a man, Bojangles,
and he danced for you in worn out shoes

The song is eerie, a little sad, but beautiful, just like the rainy sky above me. Sometimes I appreciate the rainy days, because they make me feel introspective. 

Today however, is not one of those times. I am tired, having woken up at 5:45 a.m. for my usual trip to the gym, and I am on a fairly tight schedule. Furthermore, I am hungry from the morning’s long treadmill run and from lifting weights. As a result, I am enjoying breakfast on the road – a half-eaten chocolate/peanut butter protein bar, which alternates between my right hand and the cup-holders in the console. 

I’ve been on the Beltway for about five minutes, and the rain pelts down even harder than before. I turn up the de-fogger even higher, before cranking my windshield wipers one speed faster. These tactics produce little improvement, however, as the precipitation remains in a thin, translucent film over my windshield. I am left with no other choice but to decelerate. In doing so, I make the final move which kicks off everything – I attempt to change lanes. 

Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick goes my right turn signal as my left hand pushes the steering wheel up and right. The car begins to move a couple inches to the right, then the two rear wheels jerk back to the left side, in what the layman calls “fishtailing.” This is probably due to the greasy mix of rain and oil between the lanes, paired up with my bald back tires which should be replaced. So I overcorrect by instinct, quickly turning the wheel left to try and gain control of the rear. Simultaneously, by instinct, I slam on the brakes. 

Enter, physics, up close and personal: The backside of my car turns up and right, moving counter-clockwise, while the front end continues left. All the while I am seated in my car, perfectly still, hands on the wheel and right foot planted on the brake. My car is probably stalled out by this point, but we’re still moving from the momentum of the spin, while sliding to the left side of the highway. 

Everything feels like slow motion now. Unblinking, I stare straight ahead and realize I am now face-to-face with the cars that were once behind me. The headlights of a silver Mercedes sedan look on at me like two angry eyes.  The cars are moving forward, closer and closer. All the while I am still frozen in my seat. Nina Simone is singing, 

He jumped so high, he jumped so high
Then he lightly touched down

And I realize, this is it. This is when I will die. 

This is a strangely calm and accepting moment. In this split-second, I look on at my life as a collective whole. Not in the flashback kind of way that they portray in the movies, but in a way in which I see myself as an entire, complete being. And I feel oddly content. As my car is spinning in this merry-go-round-like motion that will presumably lead to my death, I come to the following realization: 

All of the problems in my life that had seriously bothered me, I fixed. I became self-sufficient again last year, and very recently I found a fulfilling job in which I am challenged, and that uses my skills to their maximum potential. I am happier with my life, and as a result I find myself putting less pressure on myself in terms of my appearance, being less critical. I realized, eventually, that for all these years, I never gave myself the credit I deserved. 

What’s more I am now in a happy home, keeping ties with people who I truly care about, and who care about me. And I tied the loose ends with the people I care about, who are no longer in my life; I said my piece to them; I did what I could. 

This, I realize, would be a suitable ending point. 

I take a deep breath, and I accept my situation. The car will move where it will, and I have no choice but to go with it. So I wait. 

The car continues in its spin, and I find myself facing the grey concrete barrier wall lining the right-hand shoulder. Then I blink, and I’m looking straight down I-495, in the direction I had originally started. It’s been a full 360-degree turn. My muscles are clenched, my back is stiff, and I’m waiting for the telltale sounds of warped metal and the blue confetti of shattered fiberglass. Yet the car continues to the left, sliding face-forward through the narrow opening of a white construction fence which separates the left-hand lane from the neighboring HOV/Toll lanes. Had I lost control of the car another 10 feet further ahead than I did, I would have hit a concrete lane divider. 

The toll road lanes are under construction and empty, thankfully for me. In the HOV lanes I come to my senses, defeating the inertia of my instincts. I remove my foot from the brake pedal, realizing the engine is dead and the brakes are fully locked. Yet, the car is still moving and in the direct path of a green construction dumpster. Enter, my inner “lightbulb moment,” in which my brain cells re-awaken: I yank the parking brake.

The car stops. 

Point blank: I just pulled a 360-degree turn on I-495 in the pouring rain, coming out uninjured and with zero body damage to my car. The old British guys on Top Gear couldn’t have mastered this. 

I slump back into my seat, and take a bite of my protein bar. It’s all I can do. 

As I chew on the salty, chocolaty goodness, I realize how sickeningly lucky I am. I realize how many people have been in similar situations, but wound up dismembered and unrecognizable. I realize that someone, somewhere up in the sky had a hand in this, and is looking out for me. Some higher power out there, ultimately, wants me to be here. And most importantly I realize that I am still here, because there is a purpose I was put here for, that I have yet to accomplish. That’s the bigger picture. 

I am not the best-looking or most intelligent person in the world. My destiny does not involve breaking world records or winning trophies. Out of the 7 billion people on this planet, I am average at best. However, I do make the most of what I have, continuing to challenge myself in whichever way I can, be it physically, mentally, or emotionally. I embrace the people that I love, as these relationships fulfill me in a way that material gifts and a weekend’s fleeting entertainment never could. And although I’ve made my share of poor choices, I know I am a good person. I take ownership of my mistakes, and I move forward. It’s all that I can do. 

Times like these make me step back from the noise and the chaos and the fluff. I want to live—that’s the final chord. Life is the best gift I have.