The car was all packed up and ready to go.
The trunk of my Saturn SL1 didn’t have much space. But my mother had fit my belongings inside it.
This was no small feat. I was entering my junior year of college, and I would be living off campus for the first time. There were a lot of items that needed to make the journey with me.
Still, my mother was up to the task.
Like a Tetris puzzle, she’d expertly placed the clothes, bedding, and other trinkets in such a way that they neatly filled every inch of available space.
She ordered me not to open the trunk until I reached South Florida. Anything I needed for the 1,300-mile trip would stay in the back seat of the car for easy access.
And so off I went, departing the Northeast, cruising through the Capital region, and gliding across the Carolinas. I cut over to Atlanta to visit a friend and do some sightseeing. Then, finally, I set my sights on the Sunshine State.
The situation shifted not long after I passed that Welcome to Florida sign. For a tropical storm was barreling across the peninsula, and I was quickly caught in its outer bands. By the time I stopped for fuel in Gainesville, sideways rain was drenching me as I gripped the gas pump.
I knew the storm would only be worse if I took the direct route down the Florida Turnpike through Orlando. So, I took the long way instead, remaining along Interstate 75. As night fell, I pulled off the road and checked into motel south of Tampa.
The next morning, I got up early to conquer the journey’s final stretch. But as soon as I merged onto the interstate, I could tell something was wrong. One of my tires seemed unstable.
I pulled over at a nearby rest area and found a hole in the tire. Maybe I’d driven over something in the quarter mile between the motel and the highway. Or perhaps the effects of the storm had done the tire in.
But regardless of the cause, I knew I could go no further.
Now, I’d learned how to change a tire in high school. But I didn’t feel confident in replicating that feat at a Florida rest area in the rain.
Fortunately, my father had purchased a AAA membership for the vehicle. So, I dialed the number for roadside assistance. Within a half hour, a mobile maintenance man was pulling into the rest area.
After exchanging pleasantries, he got down to business.
Where’s the spare tire?
My heart sank. For I realized the spare was in a compartment under the trunk.
If I was going to retrieve it, I was going to have to undo all my mother’s good work.
There was no time to mope about this, though. I was being charged by the hour, and I needed to get back on the road.
So, I scrambled to get all my possessions out of the trunk and into the back seat. The mobile mechanic then got the spare on, and we parted ways.
I made a pit stop 15 miles down the road at a Walmart in Bradenton. Another mechanic installed a replacement tire and put the spare back in its storage spot. With that business concluded, I tried to fit all my belongings back in the trunk.
It proved impossible.
I lacked my mother’s ingenuity and dexterity. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get the puzzle pieces to fit.
Plus, the morning rain had given way to steamy sunshine. I was getting roasted alive as I tried to get the trunk organized. I had no choice to give up.
With some of my belongings splayed messily across the trunk, and others splayed messily along my back seat floorboards, I hit the road. I cruised down the Suncoast and sprinted across Alligator Alley, finally reaching the endpoint of my journey.
My mother’s work with the trunk of my Saturn was notable. But it was far from her first rodeo when it came to optimizing a journey.
In fact, one of my early memories involved this very feat. I was 5 years old and we were heading on a family trip to Maine in my father’s Toyota Corolla.
Between camping gear, clothing, and non-perishable food, we had too many items to fit in a compact car. So, after loading up the trunk, my mother stuffed the rest of the items on the rear floorboards, where my sister and I would normally have placed our legs.
With that space now filled with gear, we sat with our knees up in front of our faces for hours. It was hardly comfortable, but it proved effective. We got everything to Maine.
For years after that, my mother would help everyone in the family pack our suitcases — ensuring we could travel as efficiently as possible.
I had never thought much of this until that tire mishap on Interstate 75. Before I found myself stranded in that rest area, I simply considered efficient packing to be one of my mother’s tendencies.
But as I struggled to fit my items back in the trunk outside that Walmart in Bradenton, I saw the value in what my mother did. I understood the importance of optimization.
And that realization has transformed my life.
These days, I’m road tripping far less — and for shorter distances.
Plus, I have an SUV with ample space for whatever’s going on the journey with me. So, I haven’t tried to stuff a trunk in years.
Yet, I’ve worked on optimizing many other components of my daily life. What I eat. When I sleep. How I entertain myself. And much more.
I track a decent amount of this in Excel spreadsheets and smartphone apps. I rely on mental accounting for the rest.
And several of my life choices — such as giving up sweets or committing to early morning fitness six days a week — are directly tied to optimization.
There are many whys behind this behavior. Yes, I want to boost my health, maintain wealth, and manage my time.
But I also want to be better. To leverage my ever-expanding expertise so that I can continue to improve each day.
It’s something that drives me. And — if we’re being honest — it’s something that can drive others away from me.
Because it’s all so obsessive, so intense.
You see, there’s something soothing about going with the flow. Every moment of every day is both a gift and a novel adventure. A mix between Zen meditation and a Jimmy Buffett song.
All energy can be spent in service of the moment. All focus can be on the now, without worrying about the later.
We humans are drawn to this promise of a stress-free existence. For its soothing nature can prove contagious in the best of ways.
I get it. I do.
But I’ve seen the light in that steamy Florida sunshine. I’ve discovered that the greater value — for today and tomorrow — lies in optimization. And I can’t, in good conscience, go back.
So, I will continue to tinker, to adapt, to optimize.
Hopefully, I will be better for it. And hopefully, those around me will be better for it as well.
The puzzle is never fully complete. Keep optimizing.