Rest Stops and Parking Lots

I have a favorite place to fall apart and dismantle: odd mile markers and rest areas…always the car. 

I drove halfway through Ohio, collected my Columbus Marathon Bib number, packet, spent fifteen on parking and turned my coat collar up to block the stinging cold wind.  I walked countless back-and-forth miles up and down N. High Street.  All alone I visited the (rather sparsely exhibited) Museum of Art.  The sculptural collection of Dale Chihuly (Chihuly, Illuminated) emited a soft, heated flourescent buzz.  I drove around for awhile.  I chased my aunt down.  I sat in another parking lot.  I sat in the Hyatt Regency lobby watching cut-out people with stand-up strollers and put tab-A-through-slot-B Coach Bags and Coach toddlers.  Finally, after many hours, I decided to drive home and not race; so at 7:00pm I pointed the Jetta eastward on Route 70 and cried until I couldn’t anymore.  That’s the honestly sad truth.  My lips were numb and my eyes were twitching so I pulled over once in the “Stop only for Emergency” Lane and once at a rest area twenty miles west of Zanesville.  I cried until my eyes couldn’t offer any more.  It was pathetic and never had I been so comforted by the Pennsylvania welcome sign.  Ugh.   Horrible. 

Don’t sit in your car for too long, in solitude, on a dismal day with your head already swirling with jumbledyjumble staring at treetops and stratocumulous clouds. Take it from me.

(above, perched- Pallas)