Sleepless in suburbia

Mom fell asleep at the wheel last week. Again.

Note to the men reading this – don’t worry, guys, the car’s all right.

She's not sure how it happened. One minute she was listening to the radio and craving a warm cup of tea with a hot samosa, and the next thing she knew, mom had lurched into the right lane like a drunk driver.

It’s a good thing the lane next to her was empty because mom couldn't have dealt with a car crash on a full bladder.

If you ask me, people like her should be barred from commuting more than 6.78 miles - the exact distance from our house to the Asian grocery store where she buys fresh bhindi and frozen jackfruit. Everything that's important in her life - the public library, Costco, the mall, her eyebrow lady - fall within that radius, and there's really no reason for mom to step out of her comfort zone.

While she’s still not sure how the near-accident happened, mom knows why it happened.

The daily 60-mile commute, offset by a few hours of restive sleep, is starting to take its toll on her. As she watches the last vestiges of her youth evaporate on a highway, mom feels like a zombie functioning on auto-pilot.

Her day starts reluctantly at 5 a.m. and ends an hour before midnight. Sleep, one of her principal hobbies since childhood, has been set aside for retirement.

“How much longer?” thinks mom, staring at the billboards and bumper stickers with listless eyes, striving to break free from her self-imposed sentence. After all, the decision to work was her own. “Do whatever you like,” has been dad’s refrain since the day they were married. But of late, when she vocalizes her frustrations, he mumbles something about being responsible and mature and striving toward a goal in life before abruptly leaving the room.

"You mean getting through the work week and making it to Friday is not a worthy goal?" mom wants to shout at his receding back.

Chastened by his attitude to work, mom reflects on a legitimate reason to quit her job. Other than the commute that’s slowly corroding her, and the giant carbon footprint she’s leaving in her wake, the woman’s been very lucky professionally. That corner office with a window was handed to her on a platter, and her position entails perks with few responsibilities.

Why then is she not satisfied with merely counting her blessings?

If mom cranes her neck, she does see a light at the end of the tunnel. But before she can feel its warmth on her face, she has deadlines to meet and miles to drive before she can oversleep.

In the meantime, if mom is to be involved in a car crash, please God, let her be the only casualty.