It struck me as odd last night on my walk home from work as to why we all build up great amounts of stress over events, people, things we really can't control. The traffic, which will forever be condensed like a pack of sardines unless you're swimming upstream at midnight. Or how we spend our time, always inevitably late to everything. And a personal favorite for me, immediately getting that tense sensation in my shoulders as my car carries me over that hill, right before I set eyes on my apartment building: whether or not I can park my car somewhere.

You see, she's a beauty. She really is. So I hate to take her out on these roads resembling old, grumbly men, arguing over who gets the business section of the post while failing to realize that they're both growing holes. They'll tear her up, no doubt. I hate to take her out in the snow because she's a bit fickle as well. Doesn't like the wintry mix beneath her tires. So I take it upon myself to slip around and get a meager amount of exercise walking to and from work most days. Partly so I don't have to drive in the snow and mostly so I don't have to worry about where I'm going to park her.

Yet, on those days when I do leave her be to sleep while I trudge along, I end up worrying more about the other drivers. Yes, the ones that will potentially hit me, not unlike last night on my walk back from work.

You see, yesterday I wrongly assumed that since the tea-leaf readers we call meteorologists said it would be close to fifty degrees outside, that would mean that it would be warm enough to wear a light coat. Yet, invariably, every time I set foot outside the back door of my modest nine-story office building, it always seems to be colder than I wished, and certainly colder than in the morning. And as I stood shivering at the corner of the intersection, watching the traffic lights to see when it was my turn (because, of course, the dimwitted county decided to install pedestrian indicators only on one side of the street), I heard a honking.

It was coming from the direction I was headed, a right turn lane, one whose traffic would have to yield to me as I crossed. A bus sat idling in the lane, obviously waiting for its turn as two lanes of turning traffic delayed the continuation of its journey. So when the light finally changed and I half walked, half trotted across the highway, the bus having gone before me, I came very close to two cars nearly running me down.

I suppose it would have been my fault if there had not been a sign for that right line clearly indicating that not yielding to pedestrians would result in a fine. However, the rage and anxiousness of these drivers had prevented them from seeing this sign, and ultimately, seeing me until I was right in front of them.

I uttered an "Umm…?", raising my eyebrows in disappointment and half amazement as the car slammed on it's break, and then sighing, I said "thank you…" not really in thanks that they hadn't tumbled over me, but more that they should've known better.

And I wasn't the only one crossing the street at that moment, although I did happen to be the first and did receive the superlative for most likely to become a pancake. But what irks me the most is that it'll take the same amount of time to reach a destination if the driver is calm or if they are annoyed, anxious, pissed-off, or angry. Adding that extra stress doesn't help in the least, but makes situations much more worse. Mythbusters even proved that you waste more gas when you're angry or annoyed than when you're calm. So why not take an extra moment to calm down a bit, keep your eyes on the road and let the chips fall where they may (and preferably not the people).

I've been thinking a lot about Fight Club recently. Ever since my trip to the giant behemoth of swedish interiors, I've been thinking about it. Little neat rows of picture frames of various sizes. Built in bookshelves painted bright blue and white. Having a roommate that nags you about buying things doesn't necessarily help. But really, all I started with was a hand-me-down bed and a chair my mother and grandfather built me. The first things I put in my new room were pictures on nails already in the walls.

But sometimes, in between browsing craigslist for cheap deals on gently used furniture and thinking about ikea hacks, I wonder if my ikea catalogue is going to drift into the bathroom and we're going to pan around the apartment. Two 4x4 Expedit bookshelves converted into wine storage, $39.99 each. Etc, etc. So that when I walk home and crash through the door, I will think to myself: "At least I have that couch. If anything happens then at least I have it."

When I was in college, the meaning of life was to graduate with a degree in something (anything, my mother told me) and find a job where I would work from eight to five every day, come home to my dog/cat/computer and make some delicious dinner while hiding myself behind the thick door of my apartment occasionally venturing out for food (groceries, beer, the unfrequent takeout). At least if anything happened, I'd have that degree and some job experience.

It's nice to have goals, but I think after a while, a goal of decorating your apartment gets superficial. There's only so much space that things can fill in a non-physical way. Some people try to fill that space with something spiritual, some people fill it with a dog or a cat. But really, I think it's more about filling that space with meaningful people and creating something ingenious. Without people to share your joys, life is much less... alive.

As a 20-something, I must admit, there's something that's been really bothering me. People are complaining about something so plan and obviously makes logical sense to me. Obviously, I don't share the same hatred for this object as most people my age.

I know, I hate to admit it and I don't know how to do so without sounding all haute and pretentious, but here it is: I caved and ordered a duvet cover.

No really, it wasn't much of a caving move but more of a, logical assumption of 'Who would ever want to sleep underneath a down comforter that gets all dirty after a while?'. Eww, gross yellowish tinges to white down fluffy comforters of bliss is a huge turn off. Who want's to clean their down comforter all the time when it hardly fits in a washing machine and clearly comes with a label that says something about only putting in commercial washers. (Not that anyone knows what that means. What's the difference between a regular washer and a commercial one?)

Anyway, of course it makes more sense to simply take off the cover and toss it in the wash with some of your dirty clothes. Maybe that's why it's so 'grown up'. (Although really, after what you did last weekend, wouldn't you want to wash your sheets?)

So my grandmother plops down on the grass with her arms stretched out wide, surrounded by rows of gravestones and says, "This is it."

Is that it?

Somehow, you figure that someone would notice what an incredible leap it is from your daily activity being 6 +/- hours in a classroom setting to 8 +/- hours in a workplace setting. But really, this leap is simple. It's from one desk to another, bigger one where you may or may not do things you are interested in. Honestly, work was pretty much what I expected it to be. Do some things that may or may not make sense with those talents that a liberal arts degree did not help me with at all, make some money while cringing at the tiny amount that shows up in a small bank account where more than half of it goes to cover expenses.

Somehow, I'm ok with being pretty much normal. Maybe that's because unlike the majority of my friends, I actually have a salaried job under a year out of college. (Only one other friend can say the same.) Maybe it's because I decided what I liked to do and actually make a career out of it (web design), while the majority of my friends are still in the midst of an identity-crisis and are racking up more debt by going to graduate school for something they may or may not be interested in.

Instead of the leap between school and work that's a difficult adjustment, it's a social leap and a question of 'What now?'. In the proverbial checklist of life I've already gotten to tick off high school diploma, college degree, landed my first job, and moved to a big city. But after that, things on the list become a little muddled, like someone went to the bar and used it as a napkin/coaster and that middle part before 'find someone you actually want to marry and not simply because you want to get married' gets distorted both through the fog of one too many drinks and as a casualty of condensation (no, I'm lying, it's actually just a bit of spilled, sticky vodka and something). Not that I've actually been to a bar and had a vodka and something in quite some time.

In one way, the years before college graduation were easy in terms of life goals. There were set out guidelines. College graduation had a date that was set and you either made it with most of the class or your didn't and spent a bit of time catching up. Except that now, no one sets far off dates for you. No one makes it clear what's next. Instead, you're left in a bit of a strange place. Somewhat comfortably thinking about how you should probably start that IRA next month and wondering 'what next?'

And all this time, through having my first adult roommate and making my first purchase from Ikea, I can't help but think of Fight Club. Where is the substance when you're living in a strip-mall city?

"You buy furniture. You tell yourself, this is the last sofa I will ever need in my life. Buy the sofa, then for a couple years you're satisfied that no matter what goes wrong, at least you've got your sofa issue handled. Then the right set of dishes. Then the perfect bed. The drapes. The rug. Then you're trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you."