Sleepless

As I do nearly every Saturday, I spent several hours driving for Uber around the city of Atlanta, my hometown.

On an average Saturday, I will drive as many as 13 hours. I drive that long because it’s just about the only way you can make money off of Ubering in Atlanta anymore.

I’ve been an Uber driver (the company uses the word “partner,” which is like calling yourself a “congressman” just because you voted in an election) for nearly two years and six months. I wish I could say that driving for so long “wasn’t my plan,” but that would imply that I had a plan in the first place.

One of my many flaws is that I may be insane. When I have an idea on how to get ahead (typically in the financial sense), I tend to start on a path that I believe in the beginning is going to lead me to some great reward. That my dedication to the hard work is going to be looked upon kindly by those in a position to reward. It’s the same belief that locked me into journalism for nearly 15 years, for which I recently declared my departure.

(Yes, being an Uber driver is far more challenging than you might think. It’s all customer service. Some rides are easier than others. And the others are often either comically stupid or question your faith in humanity.)

At one point on Saturday, I was taken several miles northeast of the city by riders and thought I could take a short break and visit some friends that lived near one of my stops.

My friends Heather and Ben are two of my closest friends. I’ve known Heather since high school and have always liked her for her thoughtfulness and sarcastic wit And I got to know her husband, Ben (they met in college), through soccer in my late 20s. I liked Ben from the start and have always admired him for being the kind of guy I wish I was more like: confident, agile and naturally intelligent. The dude is also the king craftsman … it’s like he was raised in a Home Depot.

(Most significantly, they were among the few friends I had who really stepped up and showed up when I was battling cancer six years ago. I owe them more than I could ever repay.)

I dropped by just to say hello briefly and found them preparing to take their two adorable daughters to the neighborhood pool. Despite plans in motion, they seemed surprised and happy to see me. We chatted for a few minutes about my latest Ubering and other nonsense related to the norms of work and home. It was a short visit, but a pleasant one that I’m glad I decided to take, nonetheless.

They live in a nice home and in a generally pleasant community in metro Atlanta. They’re great, hands-on parents and they are probably the couple I admire most in this world, short of my own parents.

We shared hugs, I tickled and high-fived the girls, then we went our separate ways. I started to drive back into Atlanta through muddled traffic spots along I-85 and began suffering from a migraine. It was probably my third one this week and I have no doubt that each one has been my own fault.

I live a stressful life brought on by a number of poor decisions. In the last few years, I have been working harder to course correct by practicing Essentialism. But like any discipline (or life, in general), there are times when you simply slip up and lose your footing. That’s when you can easily find yourself lost.

I admire what Heather and Ben have as a couple and the fact that they don’t take any of it for granted. They really work on making it work. That’s real love, in my book.

But I’m not sure I’ve figured out whether that kind of life is for me. Before I was sick and “woke up” from the apathetic coma of my late 20s, I just assumed the nuclear family life was something that would just eventually happen and then the rest of my life was written out for me from there. I found it more like an obligation than a byproduct of love. I thought bit was just something you were supposed to do.

I had similar notions about the idea of hard work. I grew up to think that life was only about hard work. It’s how I was supposed to live, so if my day-to-day constantly felt stressful, then … well, “that’s life,” as my father, a baby boomer, would often passively advise.

Heather and Ben work hard, but they have joy. I work hard, but … I must be doing something wrong.

Uber driving was supposed to be a way for me to finally get out of debt and press forward with other goals. But that plan has gradually become the equivalent of banging my head against the desk repeatedly while believing that I’m somehow going to feel great once I’ve burrowed a hole into it.

But it’s not just Ubering that’s the problem. It’s not a one-piece issue … the whole puzzle is jumbled in the box. And when I look at the pieces, even as I think they’re all there, I still wonder …

Is this all that there is?

To add to my woes, my birthday is on Thursday. Perhaps I should take this week to rethink just what sort of picture I want the puzzle to reveal, and whether I even have the right pieces to finish it.

The only thing I know for certain at the time of this writing is that there is no shame in admitting your own flaws or feelings of defeat. Seriously … I’ve seen a lot of Uber riders do or say a lot of shameful things late at night. I just wish I could sleep easier than they do.