Every day begins in one of three ways: sunlight streaming through a sliver of window that had been left uncovered; solar heat working its way through the obsidian that makes up the cloth convertible top; or an uncomfortably full bladder. The third of these represents the greatest immediate threat. Yes, I suppose in a tightly-shut car slumber can turn to suffocation soon enough if it's hot, more likely you'll just come out sweaty and smelling a bit off. But beginning the day invariably sets off a 10-minute biological countdown that must, absolutely without a doubt result in finding a restroom, and failing that a private bush or tree or large SUV. It's the one biggest way that living in a car can add stress your daily routine.
So you find ways to cope, and you cope fast. You know the closest restrooms in relation to anywhere. You do the daily trunk-inventory calculus: which books to bring, which clothes to bring, whether you'll work out, which shoes, how to fit toothbrush, toothpaste, and face wash into the small compartment of the backpack next to everything else. Park, throw things around, go. You think with the precision of a military commander. You look ahead like planned parenthood.
This takes you about twenty minutes into the day.
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