The Shuttle Diaries – Chapter 1

Wow, time really does fly. I’ve somehow already spent two weeks getting paid a modestly meager amount of money to drive a voluptuous 14-seat van back-and-forth on one of America’s sexiest 85-mile stretches of freeway.

My daily trips from Summit County, Colorado to Denver International Airport aren’t a job. They’re a lifestyle, and a luxurious one at that. No single human being on this planet deserves to live with such enviable fame and glory, but here I am just doing the damn thing.

It’s long been known that shuttle drivers are the backbone of the mighty western world’s economy, and it’s something I think about every morning when I tie the laces of my all-black shoes, zip up my cushy navy blue vest, and walk around my van to check for vehicle deficiencies and safety hazards.

I’m blessed to be at the very top of the totem pole in this power hungry world we live in, and I plan on sharing my experiences and lessons learned with the peasants out there through my weekly (hopefully?) Shuttle Diaries. Here’s my first installment:

1. The number of hours you work is way less important than the actual job you’re doing.

I promise this is the only serious part of Chapter 1. This lesson isn’t applicable specifically to the last couple weeks – it’s something that’s taken me 3+ years of adulthood (I consider college graduation the official start of adulthood) to begin understanding.

One of the reasons I majored in business in college was because I wanted to work a comfortable office job with consistent 9-to-5 type hours. I cared much more about working as little as possible than I did about finding a job that satisfied me and left me feeling proud at the end of the day.

This past summer on Mackinac Island I was consistently working 50+ hours per week, and there were a couple stretches where I worked 20+ days in a row. The hours don’t sound great, but it was extraordinarily stress-free and I had more fun while working than I did outside of work.

Things couldn’t have been more opposite when I was working in insurance. Five days and 40 hours per week were overwhelming for me at times, and the stress and anxiety I brought home with me made it feel more like a 24/7 job.

The Sunday Scaries started out as a funny joke in college. On Sunday night I would regret the time wasted and/or the beers drank over the weekend, and it was always followed with an “oh shoot I have to be responsible again tomorrow” feeling. I always got over it quickly, and it was something to laugh at, but after college it quickly turned into legitimate anxiety. The Sunday Scaries turned into the Saturday Morning Scaries when I began the countdown until I went back to work on Monday morning.

Some of the blame for that stress and burnout is attributable to my inability to properly deal with my work perfectionism. I’ve always piled extra stress on myself because I’m way way way harder on myself than anyone should ever be, which was especially difficult when my job had a steep learning curve that takes years for someone to get really truly good at.

I placed the rest of the blame on my lack of satisfaction at the end of each work day, which made some of my 50 minute drives home feel like hours.

I’m obviously not trying to be a hero – doctors, teachers, firemen, and many other professions could be considered as such – but there’s still something genuinely enjoyable and satisfying about meeting people from all over the country and helping make their vacation as enjoyable as possible. It made last week’s back-to-back 12 hour days followed by a 14 hour Christmas shift pass by like a breeze.

Some burnout would still probably seep in if I did this job every week for multiple years, but the constant variety and change provided by seasonal work helps to prevent that from happening.

2. My English vocabulary is being greatly improved thanks to the great citizens of our southern states.

I’d estimate that 80-90% of the guests I’ve driven so far are from the south – primarily Texas, Louisiana, and Alabama – and up until this point in my life I haven’t had much of an introduction to their terrific slang.

That all changed early last week when I picked up a group of seven from Texas and Louisiana. Their party reserved the entire vehicle for themselves, so we made a pitstop at a Costco on our way to the mountains.

A couple of them hopped out to pick up groceries, most of which was liquor, and when they returned they couldn’t stop gushing over how big the “buggies” are in Colorado. I had no idea what they were talking about, so finally after a few minutes I worked up the courage to ask.

I was blown away when they explained that down south the shopping carts are typically called buggies. It’s such a simple thing, but how cool is that?

I’m drawing a line in the sand. I now officially find the term “shopping cart” to be boring, classless, and downright offensive. But the term “buggy”? Now that’s something. Buggies are fun and tasteful, especially when they’re pronounced with a little bit of that southern twang we all find so charming.

Buggies have single-handedly rejuvenated my excitement for the grocery shopping experience. I’m beyond excited to get back to an Aldi for the first time in years. I’ll just so happen that I park next to a beautiful female unloading her groceries, and me being the honorable gentleman that I am, I’ll have a quarter in hand ready to trade for her buggy so she won’t need to walk back up to the store. The second she hears “buggy” come out of my mouth she’ll beg me to propose.

3. My Spanish vocabulary still needs some work.

Last December I started practicing Spanish about five or six days per week on an app called Duolingo, with a goal to at least have the basics down for my backpacking trip through Central America. I’m not proud of myself, but when that got cancelled, I stopped practicing for a few months and let a lot of my work go to waste.

I finally dove headfirst into Duolingo again when I returned home from Michigan in November, and I’ve practiced religiously for about 30-45 minutes every single day since then.

I was really starting to feel confident that I was advancing past the basics, but that all changed when I drove a Cuban American family from Miami a couple days ago. I picked them up from the airport, and somewhere along the way our conversation shifted to my Spanish practice.

Let’s just say that they relished the opportunity to put me through the ringer, and in the process my confidence was shattered and my will to live was stolen.

They were impressed with my ability to speak, especially the basics, but they quickly learned that I can’t understand other people speaking Spanish to save my life. Mas despacio, por favor!!!

Sigo siendo un gringo tonto. (I had to Google translate that)