I hate my life.

Not really.

But on that day a couple of years ago, I uttered those words with a vengeance.

I live in the northern suburbs of Atlanta, GA. For a number of years I worked for a company located about 17 miles from my house. Every morning I joined the millions of other commuters on I-575 and I-75 for the turtle ride into work.

That 17-mile drive usually required about 45 minutes to an hour. During one particularly trying period, I was logging in excess of 90 minutes going in and coming home. On several of these mornings I sent a text to my husband along the lines of “45 MINUTES JUST TO GET TO CHASTAIN!!! AND YOU WONDER WHY I HATE THIS!!”