Today I fell off the public transportation wagon. "I need to drive for work," I told myself. It was true; I needed to zip from one end of the city to the other this morning. I suppose I could have charted out a complicated route using the bus, but I doubted I would have made it to the various points I needed to reach in time. Plus, I would be all rumpled and sweaty. That was my rationalization, anyhow.

The truth is, after two weeks of not driving, I missed my car. I missed gliding down the hot streets of L.A. inside my air-conditioned, hybrid-quiet bubble of steel. I missed, inexplicably, traffic. I missed cupholders. I missed drive-thrus. I missed blasting my favorite songs. I missed going where I wanted when I wanted, traffic allowing.

Oh, but the binge was good. I took the long ways. I didn't worry about making the lights. I yielded to other, clearly harried drivers. I played the radio. I went through the McDonalds drive-thru for a Coke. I called my friends on my cell phone, giddily admitting my transgression: "guess where I am."

So I fell. Tomorrow I will be back on the bus. I will once again forgo the comforts of my car for the crowds of the Orange Line or the Commuter Express 422. As I shiver in the over-air conditioned carriage and try and not think about why the man talking to himself next to me has a crescent wrench and a fold-up knife on his belt, I will wistfully remember this morning. But then I will pull out my book or magazine, settle in and forget that I might be sitting out there somewhere, stuck deep, deep in a traffic jam.