The Becoming Code

I deliberately made my drive to work longer this morning.

There was no traffic on my usual route.

No road closure.

I hadn’t missed a turn.

I simply got to the intersection where I normally turn right…

and went straight.

There’s another route to work that takes about twelve minutes longer.

It’s not particularly scenic.

There’s a stretch beside the river.

Some older houses.

Too many traffic lights.

A bakery I’ve driven past dozens of times and still haven’t visited.

I like it.

And apparently that wasn’t enough information for my brain.

Within about a minute, I was already constructing reasons for the decision.

It would give me time to think.

Maybe the slower drive would make the morning less rushed.

Perhaps there was something useful about changing routine.

All very respectable.

Also invented after I’d already made the turn.

The actual reason was much smaller.

I wanted to go that way.

That’s it.

I arrived at work twelve minutes later than I normally would.

Nobody noticed.

Nothing was lost.

And the drive didn’t teach me anything.

Which feels important to mention.

I didn’t discover the importance of slowing down.

I didn’t suddenly see my life differently.

I drove past a man walking a small dog.

Stopped at four red lights.

Listened to half a song twice because I restarted it.

Then went to work.

I just liked that road better this morning.

Maybe preference doesn’t always need to become a principle.

I had two completely free hours yesterday.

No plans.

No work that needed finishing.

Nobody expecting me anywhere.

And almost immediately, I started trying to make the time worthwhile.

Maybe I’d read.

Go for a walk.

Get something done around the house.

Call someone I hadn’t spoken to recently.

There were plenty of respectable options.

Instead, I made a sandwich and put on an old film.

I’d already seen it.

Which somehow made the decision even less defensible.

About halfway through, I fell asleep.

Not intentionally.

I woke up twenty minutes later and kept watching.

Then at 4:37, I went into the kitchen to make tea and caught myself thinking:

I haven’t done anything with the afternoon.

Which was accurate.

It was also strange.

Nobody had given those two hours a job.

I had.

I’d taken an empty piece of Sunday and quietly introduced expectations.

Rest properly.

Enjoy it properly.

Use it well.

Make a memory.

Come back better.

Apparently even doing nothing can become something to succeed at.

I didn’t make the most of yesterday afternoon.

I made a sandwich.

Watched most of a film.

Slept through some of it.

Made tea.

By dinner, the two hours were gone.

Nothing to show for them.

I’m not sure they owed me anything.

I put my phone in a drawer yesterday.

That sounds considerably more intentional than it was.

I was waiting for a reply to something important.

I’d sent it Friday afternoon.

Saturday morning, I checked.

Nothing.

Eleven minutes later, I caught myself checking again.

Still nothing.

This was useful information because apparently I’d begun operating a highly inefficient personal delivery service in which repeatedly opening my inbox might help the other person type faster.

So I put the phone in the kitchen drawer.

Not for the day.

Not because phones are ruining civilization.

I just wanted the next check to require an extra movement.

Then I went out.

I needed something from the hardware store.

A few hours later, I found myself standing in an aisle comparing two screws that appeared, to me, to be exactly the same screw.

And somewhere around there I realized I hadn’t thought about the reply for a while.

That interested me.

Because waiting has a strange way of making something that is happening elsewhere feel like it is happening to you continuously.

But it wasn’t.

Someone, somewhere, had either replied or hadn’t.

Meanwhile I was buying the wrong screw.

I checked my phone later.

Still nothing.

The answer hadn’t arrived.

Saturday had.

I had already said yes.

That’s what made it interesting.

If I’d never agreed to go, there wouldn’t have been much to think about.

But it was in the calendar.

I’d said I’d be there.

Then yesterday afternoon I realized I didn’t want to go anymore.

There was no dramatic reason.

I wasn’t unwell.

I wasn’t overwhelmed.

Nobody had done anything wrong.

I had simply changed my mind.

Apparently, my mind regarded this as unacceptable evidence.

So it went looking for something more respectable.

A long week.

An early morning.

Too much work.

A headache would have been particularly convenient.

Eventually I noticed what I was doing.

I wasn’t deciding whether to go.

I’d already done that.

I was trying to construct a version of the decision that would be easier to defend.

So I sent a message.

“I’m going to sit this one out tonight. I changed my mind.”

Then waited.

A few minutes later:

“No worries. Next time.”

At 7:30, I was standing in my kitchen wondering what to make for dinner.

No liberation.

No great act of courage.

I didn’t even have particularly good plans instead.

I’d changed my mind.

Then behaved as though I was allowed to know that.

I had the answer.

A friend was telling me about a problem yesterday.

Not asking for advice.

Just telling me what had happened.

Within about thirty seconds, I’d worked it out.

The conversation he needed to have.

The thing he wasn’t seeing.

Probably the three steps after that too.

I could feel myself waiting for the gap where I could give it to him.

Then he finished and said:

“I don’t know. I think I just needed to say it out loud.”

And there it was.

He hadn’t brought me a problem to solve.

He’d brought me something heavy enough that he didn’t want to carry it alone for twenty minutes.

So I didn’t give him my answer.

We sat there.

I asked if he wanted another coffee.

He said yes.

Later, I found myself wondering how many times I’ve mistaken being trusted with something for being placed in charge of it.

I still think my answer was pretty good.

He’ll never know.

The mug stayed in the dishwasher all day.

I noticed it at 7:18 yesterday morning.

I’d opened the dishwasher for a plate.

The plate came out.

Then I saw the mug.

There were other things in there too.

Normally, once I’ve noticed something unfinished, that’s the end of the argument.

I finish it.

Instead, I closed the door.

Made tea.

Went to work.

The strange part wasn’t leaving it there.

The strange part was remembering it in the car.

A completely innocent mug sitting in a perfectly safe dishwasher.

By the time I reached work, I’d almost forgotten about it.

Almost.

That evening I opened the dishwasher.

Still there.

Of course it was.

I took the mug out and made tea in it.

No breakthrough.

The kitchen wasn’t transformed.

Nobody congratulated me on my personal growth.

There was just something oddly satisfying about discovering that an unfinished thing had remained unfinished all day.

And the world had apparently found a way to continue.

Someone asked me yesterday if Thursday worked.

I checked my calendar.

“No, I can’t.”

And then something slightly strange happened.

Nothing.

Normally there would have been another paragraph.

Why Thursday didn’t work.

What I already had scheduled.

How I might rearrange it.

An assurance that I wasn’t being difficult.

Perhaps an apology for having a calendar that contained something other than what they wanted.

Yesterday, none of it arrived.

There was a short pause.

Then:

“Friday?”

“Friday works.”

That was the entire conversation.

Twenty minutes later I was still thinking about the sentences I hadn’t said.

Not because they would have changed the answer.

I think I had simply become accustomed to providing evidence that my answer was reasonable.

Apparently, “No, I can’t” survived without witnesses.

I went back to work.