The Breaking Point
Stuck again. Dead traffic heading downtown. My phone was buzzing like crazy, screaming for attention. Instagram, emails, all that noise. Honestly? I was fed up staring at brake lights. Pulled my phone right out of my hand and stuffed it into the glove box. Slammed it shut. Okay, genius, now what?
Starting Simple: People Watching Gone Wild
Had to look outside the car. Saw a guy in the next lane, minivan, just… staring straight ahead, totally zoned out. Felt that, buddy. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I started making up his story. Right there, out loud. “Bet his name’s Gary. Gary’s heading to his secret salsa dancing lesson. His wife thinks it’s bridge night. Gary’s got moves.” Laughed out loud. Felt ridiculous, but weirdly fun.
Getting Creative: License Plate Olympics
Gary moved on. Still crawling. Saw a plate: “XQR 481.” Brain kicked into gear. Started scrambling the letters. Q-R-X… Rex? Quark? Tried making it into words. “X-ray Quail Run.” What? Yeah, nonsense. But then saw “LOL 354.” Okay, challenge mode. Make an acronym. “Lots Of Luggage”? “Loves Old Lemons”? Messed up tons of plates, didn’t care. Turned license plates into tiny puzzles.
The Big Leap: Full Volume Karaoke (Alone)
Okay, energy was up, traffic still sucked. Radio popped on, some cheesy 80s anthem. Normally, I’d just kinda hum. Not this time. Rolled the windows up tight. Checked the mirrors – nobody close enough to see inside clearly. Took a deep breath. Then just belted it out. I mean, full-on, off-key, don’t-care-who-hears-it (even though windows were up) singing. “SWEET CAROLINE… BAH BAH BAH!” Felt my godawful voice bouncing around the car. Felt… amazing? Definitely goofy. Totally unstuck.
So… Did It Work?
Glove box stayed shut until I parked. Seriously. My usual white-knuckle commute melted away. Felt lighter, way more present. Made stupid stories, invented nonsense words, turned my car into a private concert hall. It wasn’t perfect, sometimes lapsed into quiet, but caught myself quicker each time. It shook me out of the scroll-zombie trance. Next time you’re crawling along, try it. Ditch the phone. You might invent a story about Gary, or finally hit that high note. Either way, beats staring at taillights.
