We were both first in line waiting on a read light to switch colors to a permissive green. Him in the right lane and me in the left.
With the warm weather, we both had windows down. Music was cranked to loud (but not obnoxious) volumes; high enough to register in neighboring vehicles, but not so loud to drown out or overpower their radios or conversations.
Our situations were similar, but the status of our predicaments were radically disparate. Consider the following.
He was sitting in a shiny fresh-from-the-car-wash ebony Volkswagen Jetta with tinted windows, lowered suspension, low profile tires, and custom rims. My car has never been washed, and the only money spent on it was for standard maintenance and repairs.
He stared strait forward with an iron grip on his steering wheel, jaw clenched, cigarette held outside his window, and was listening to thrash metal. I was smiling like a fool and bobbing my head to the beat of Michael Jackson's Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough.
I hate to make assumptions, but I'd be willing to bet I was enjoying my day far more than my incidental companion at the stoplight. Then again, I also have something hanging from my mirror reminding me why I have reason to be happy.