Behind the wheel

I was driving home yesterday afternoon after meeting a friend for lunch. I was listening to NPR’s The Colin McEnroe show, a local production which I dislike intensely because Colin is a blowhard who interviews his guest with interminable questions highlighting his personal experiences along with a barrage of self-important bon mots so the guests never really get a chance to speak. Nevertheless, I was listening because I felt sleepy and I thought my annoyance would keep me up.

I made it off the highway and was on my very familiar route home when I found myself yawning every ten seconds or so. I kept one eye open as I yawned so I could still see, but that feeling you get when you are about to nod off refused to budge. Thankfully, I was less than a mile from home.

I made one of my final turns when my drowsiness got down to serious business. Colin was still blathering on and I cursed him aloud but somnolence proved more pernicious than McEnroe. The next thing I knew I came to as I was about to hit a streetside garbage can. Mortal terror successfully jolted me awake, and I made it home, heart pounding.

I was no longer sleepy because of adrenaline and the brief nap I’d had behind the wheel. I was, however, humbled. Consciousness as an impossibly slippery state to maintain is new territory for me, and I understand that my limits are not Colin McEnroe, and have to be respected.