Best Laid Plans

I exercised the patience of Job these many long months of a bitter winter in anticipation of the Spring. This tempestuous mistress has tempted us with some enticements in the last two weeks but today, she gave us the full Monty. It was 70 degrees and sunny and --hey, what's that on my face?--it's warmth.

I often find that I am either trapped in the confines of my dark apartment in Manhattan or in my light filled but glass barricaded office in Connecticut or in the confines of my vehicle going to and fro between the aforementioned milieus. Lately, the confinement feels suffocating.

Seeing the beauty of the day unfold, I was so impatient to go out and experience fresh air that I decided to do something about it. Rationalizing that I had not yet taken a day off in 2009, I decided at 5:14 pm that I was going to leave the office. I was going to go home, change into workout gear and have an inspired run in Riverside Park. I really wanted to do this--I couldn't wait.

I bid my colleagues adieu, raced for the car and hit the road. I entered onto the highway in high spirits, drove with wanton exhilaration for 3.2 miles and then found myself in the mother of all traffic jams. I tried side roads and pulled out all my traffic tricks. No go. This was serious.

By Stamford, I was moving at a top speed of 5.8 mph. I answered e-mail on my Blackberry. I called several people. I sang "Give You Hell" by The All American Rejects very, very loudly with the radio. I swore at imaginary nemesis who cut me off, promising to kill multiple generations of their offspring. I gazed longingly at the sky. I played a waving game with a station wagon full of kids in front of me. A man in a jet black Escalade blew a kiss at me--a nice one. Shame I was in such a shitty mood. I sang Pink's "So What" really badly. Before long, I was in Greenwich.

An hour later, I finally made it to New Rochelle. The sun was waning and my mood grew foul. The pleasant patience of the earlier commuters was now ruthless. People cut in lanes, people blocked others from cutting in, hand gestures and cool indifference were the watchwords here. I honked my horn just because I felt like it and not because I was reserving it for more heinous acts. I was tailgated for miles by an intense looking woman. Gazing at her in the rear view mirror, I had a moment when I really wanted to stop my car, get out, walk to her vehicle and deck her hard.

48 minutes later, I was in the Bronx. My anger had given way to sad and bitter resignation. I had given up hip hop for a radio classic rock station. When Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" came on, I nearly started crying. I had been on the road for 2 hours and 20 minutes and people, I had started believing I would never get home. My hope for a simple jog through the park was now but a memory.

By the time I filed across the McCoombs Dam Bridge into Manhattan, it was 8:12 pm, nearly 3 hours after I had cheerfully bounded from the office. I was now prepared to kill anyone and anything in my sight and as an illustration, I was listening to Gangsta Rap on the radio. Take no prisoners, motherfucker.

I walked into my apartment at 8:43 pm. Fang sympathetically offered me a glass of wine. "Pack your bags, man, " I said coolly, "we are moving to Connecticut immediately."

It may be sooner than later.