Sometimes I Drive Nowhere Just to Feel Like a Man With a Purpose

I told her I was “running errands.”
Which was technically true — if you count driving 40 minutes in one direction, listening to static, and not buying anything an errand.

Sometimes I just… drive.
Nowhere special.
Nowhere even open.
I loop the beltway, take exits that lead to farms and ghost towns, park in the back of grocery store lots, and sit there — windows down, engine running, climate off.

It’s not depression.
It’s not therapy.
It’s a vibe.
A specifically male ritual called disappearing in motion.

Because here’s the thing: if I’m moving, I don’t have to explain myself.
If I’m in the car, no one asks why I haven’t answered emails or why I’m short-tempered or what I’m thinking about when I go quiet mid-dinner.
In the car, I have an alibi.
I’m “getting stuff done.”
Even if that stuff is just not crying in front of the laundry basket again.

There’s something sacred about the hum of tires and indecision.
The way gas stations smell the same no matter where you go.
The way a half-warm bottle of water becomes your emotional support thermos by mile 36.

Sometimes I think about calling a friend during these drives.
But then I remember I’m not in the mood to explain myself in full sentences.
I just want to exist somewhere without the pressure of a plot.

The highway doesn’t care if you’ve got it all figured out.
It doesn’t ask follow-ups.
It just says, Left lane ends soon. Merge.

And maybe that’s enough for today.
Maybe the point isn’t to get somewhere — it’s just to keep driving until the panic gets tired of following you.

So yeah, I’ll be home soon.
Eventually.
Maybe after one more detour past that old abandoned Sonic where I once told a girl I loved her and she laughed like it was a compliment.

I just needed to drive.
Because stillness feels like failure.
And gas is cheaper than introspection.