Worst Case Scenario
I needed to slow down.
About a year ago, I got a speeding ticket.
I spent about seven hours a week in my car. My commute was 40 minutes in one direction, provided that the stars aligned. I drove to a good job that was adequate, with a clear trajectory, and I liked the people and the organization. Though I frequently griped about management and pay, it was fine and I was good at it. But it simply wasn’t something that I wanted to do for the rest of my life. It wasn’t my path, and I could feel the chip on my shoulder hardening. This hardening was only outpaced by my driving, which had been getting more reckless and aggressive as of late. The almost-two hours a day, two hundred miles per week drive was eroding my patience.
It was after 10pm, September, the expressway lonely and violet-tinged from the defective streetlights. I drive a 2013 Mazda MX-5 Miata that is affectionately nicknamed Amy, after Ms Winehouse herself. The nights were finally cooling, and I had the window rolled down. I was exhausted after an arduous day in the office, followed by a work event that left my social battery at zero. Normally I’d be listening to music, but that night I sped over the lolling overpasses towards home in tired silence.
At first, I thought the car was abandoned. I could see a sedan with no lights on sitting on the shoulder. Closer - I saw the door was open. Maybe a person? Closer - Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office. Closer - a man, crouched behind the door with a radar gun pointed my direction. Fuckkk. As I was passing - there wasn’t even enough time to slow down - he got in the car.
I let off the gas, letting the incline of the road do its work. If I lay on the brakes, that will just give me away...right? An exit ahead, so gloriously close! No, I’m not “running from the cops” if I just very quickly exit the highway -
Lights and sirens. He was behind me as I rolled off the expressway onto the offramp’s shoulder. I had no reason to speed other than that I wanted to be home. I’d just take my ticket, say yes-sir-no-sir, and be on my way.
He was a big guy with a big mustache. Mild and polite. We went through the license and registration ordeal. He explained that the speed limit was 55 (though you’d be hard pressed to find a driver going under 60 on any highway in Tampa).
“I got you going at 76,” he said.
My stomach dropped. Twenty over was enough to get hit with reckless driving.
“I’ll drop it to 66,” he said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble. But you need to be more careful. We just don’t want people getting hurt or worse.”
I was thankful for his mercy. But I took backroads home, feeling ashamed. He was right. It was a selfish, stupid risk. And yet, how many times I had haughtily shamed my fiance for speeding in his BMW, how many times had I proudly and readily gloated about my clean driving record, my goodliness, my immaculate citizenship?
I often speed. I’m always running late, weaving through traffic because I’m chronically late and usually sleep-deprived. Every lifted truck with a “don’t tread on me” plate became an opp, the road a game. I drove by the same gas stations, same palm trees, same billboards, same careless drivers. I wasn’t aggressive, but I definitely didn’t mind cutting someone off.
More importantly, I didn’t like that I was becoming an angrier person.
But it wasn’t really about the traffic, the other drivers, or the construction (though can someone tell me why Ashley Dr. into downtown Tampa is always a maze of cones, please?)
One day, I went to a morning yoga class and from there to work. Being early, the roads were blissfully empty. The sun peeked through the overcast sky. I’m sure the post-yoga clarity had something to do with it, but I felt a deep sense of gratitude. My fiance picks up Taco Bell for us whenever I get my period, and I love that he’s the type of person that I want to emulate rather than change. My friends are brilliant, beautiful, funny, creative, thoughtful women who prioritize me when I need it most. My job, though stressful at times, has helped me grow my confidence, allowed me to meet some truly inspiring people, and given me the opportunity to see new places.
Despite the gratitude, I knew this deeply: the job I had, the career I was chasing - it wasn’t for me.
When I graduated college, I knew I wanted to return for a Master of Fine Art in Creative Writing. I had lived for my literature classes; I wrote constantly, read voraciously, worked on the school’s literary journal. It was the reason I loved college. Even after I graduated, I didn’t stop caring about my writing. I knew that if I could do anything, I would write for a living.
But then a professor told me it was a very bad idea to pursue an MFA out of grad school. If you still want it in five, ten years, then do it. But go live a little first. And don’t go into debt for it. I didn’t want to believe her. But I ended up following her advice (for no other reason than I admired her poetry so much). As an adult who has gone and lived a little first, I realize now how right she was, at least for me.
While on this drive after yoga, I had, for lack of a better word, an epiphany. I know exactly which stretch of highway I was on when it happened. The thought hit me, slapped me, shook me by the shoulders. Katie, you’re living your worst case scenario.
I laughed. Out loud, by myself. How right that thought was. I should apply to grad school. I should go get my MFA. Because if I don’t get in to a program, I’ll simply end up back here, at this job, with this life, and this is actually not a bad life. It’s a great life, so what do I have to lose? I’ve built a career. I have something to fall back on. My job might even take me back if nothing panned out afterwards. My partner keeps encouraging me. So what am I waiting for? I have enough for a portfolio. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher. What am I waiting for? I think I’m a pretty good writer, actually. The worst thing I can do is not apply. The worst case scenario is that I never try.
That was a year ago. In that year, I applied to schools nationwide, desperate for a fully-funded offer. I was doubtful of getting in anywhere. I agonized over my portfolio. I scrambled for letters of recommendation, wrote awkward hey-remember-me? emails to former professors. Then finally:
Congratulations! It is with great pleasure that I am writing to invite you to join…
Last week, I signed up for classes. I never hesitated. I keep re-opening the registration portal just to stare at my schedule in amazement. Those are my classes. Mine!
I’m not blind to the hurdles of grad school. Imposter syndrome is real. I’m anxious about being a broke college student again. I don’t imagine an easy workload. But each day feels very weird and very cool right now. The weirdness and coolness hasn’t worn off yet.
To professionalize as a writer takes a lot of work, though infinitesimal compared to the amount of luck required. But I’ve always wanted to focus on my writing. It’s just the only thing that ever made sense. If I could work hard and get pretty good at something I only moderately cared about, I think that I can work hard and get really good at something that I’m passionate about.
My driving has gotten better. I merge with more grace. I meditate for a moment before I put the car in drive. It sounds silly, but I say an affirmation: I am going to be calm and safe today. Because there really isn’t a rush. Even when the unimportant things feel urgent. Even when you’re angry about where you’re going. You can always make a turn, find a slower, more scenic route.
It’s a better risk to take.