On a recent — satisfyingly brisk — Monday morning in September, I plopped into my sparkling new Honda Civic, and began the journey north.

Waze estimated my trip would take only 5 hours and 15 minutes, which was refreshing to read. But — from my point of view — the GPS's timeline was a tad overoptimistic, given that it usually takes at least seven hours to drive from Arlington, Va., to my destination, Bridgeport, Conn.

Tiffany's Music Choices Guide My Way

As I rolled out of my garage, I blasted SiriusXM's 1980's station, which is my standard music fare — even for trips to the local gas station. In fact, I spend so much time listening to SiruiusXM's 1980's station that I frequently hear the same chain of songs several times in a week.

As I hit the road, a few minutes before 6 a.m., Tiffany — the 1980's pop star best known for the song "I Think We're Alone Now" — is talking about how she worshipped Madonna when she was 13 years old, and dreamed of being a music idol. That would have been in 1984, shortly before Tiffany herself began cranking out Billboard songs.

Between playing her favorite 1980's tunes, Tiffany frequently notes that she's giving Alan Hunter, Mark Goodman and Nina Blackwood — three of the five original MTV "VJ's" — a break from emceeing the station. (Martha Quinn, a fourth original VJ, apparently decided to sit this one out. J.J. Jackson, the fifth original VJ, died in 2004.) [By the way, if you didn't know, VJ is short for Video Jockey.]

I've already heard Tiffany talk about how much she respects Madonna three times this week.

I Let My Imagination Wander

I turn onto the highway, open the sunroof, roll down the windows and feel the wind smacking on my face. As I evade traffic and accelerate my car, I imagine I'm a happy dog with his paws, head and tongue hanging out the window. I then see myself as short-haired, gray cat friskily kneading his paws on the leather upholstery of the car's rear seats.

I say nothing. I continue to drive.

'Uncle Jay' Tells Reads A Bed-Time Story

I'm actual quite proud of myself for waking up at 5 a.m. and hitting the road before 6 a.m. The night before I had attended a dinner party that included a five-year-old boy. As the clock hit the hour in which I should have been in bed counting sheep, I was instead reading the five-year-old boy a bedtime story.

You would have thought that a kid that age would have wanted me to read him a fairy tale or story about a nice red firetruck.

Not this kid.

Instead, he asked that "Uncle Jay" read him a science book that features the "Peanuts Gang" explaining how cells grow into babies, how bones develop and how humans breathe.

After reading five pages of the science book for the boy— and with his mother's approval — I flipped to the last page of the book, as if the rest of the 'story' didn't exist, thus ending story time.

I Feel Surprisingly Focused, Evade Speed Traps

The morning after bedtime stories by "Uncle Jay" — despite my slightly clipped sleep schedule — I was feeling surprisingly focused.

Gambling that the commute would take no more than 5 hours and 15 minutes, I was committed to driving the entire run without any pitstops. (Before my drive, I had a single banana and a cup of coffee with oat milk in it to fuel me).

For most of the trip, I had smooth sailing — or at least no traffic — and I stuck close to the 5 hour and 15 minute timeline. Meanwhile, with few exceptions, police speed traps were nowhere to be found. Helpfully, Waze told me when police cars were hiding, and I responded by obeying the speed limit as I approached the state troopers' vehicles.

Of course, once I saw the coast was clear, I made sure to drive at whatever speed made my inner doggie feel happy.

Thus, by semi-obeying the strict speed limits of the northbound eastern seaboard, I zoomed towards Bridgeport, Conn., more quickly than I thought was possible without one of those 'Nimbus 2000' broomsticks they talk about so lovingly in those Harry Potter novels.

I get bored of Tiffany talking about how much she adores Madonna, and switch to SiriusXM's "Classic Vinyl" station, which mainly features rock music from the 1960's and 1970's.

Hmm … It Would Be Relaxing To Get a COVID-19 Test

As I near Connecticut, my sister calls — and I proudly tell her that I expect to arrive in Bridgeport by shortly after 11:15 a.m. Since I'll arrive in town much earlier than I expected, I should have no trouble visiting my dad in his retirement home before he dozes off for the rest of the day — which he does quite frequently.

My sister gives me some hot tips on new vegan restaurants in Fairfield County — not that I'm a vegan or anything — and advises me to get a PCR test before I see my father, as an extra safety measure to make sure that I don't have COVID-19.

I'm vaccinated, like any sensible, rational person, but getting the test, "couldn't hurt," she says.

As I half-think about getting a test — and use the other half of my thoughts to drive reasonably safely — it occurs to me that at 11 a.m. on a Monday in September, everyone I know in Connecticut is either working, in school or convalescing.

As for the people I know who are convalescing, they require a lot of focus and attention. I figured that raising my nostrils so that technician can swap my nose would be the perfect opportunity to take a break from my driving marathon and refocus.

After all, my Airbnb room wouldn't be ready for another three hours, so I really had nothing better to do.

Lights Are On At The Test Site, But No One's Home

Following my sister's instructions, I found the PCR testing site across the street from another vegan restaurant — although the proximity of the vegan restaurant and the PCR testing site was probably a coincidence. I'm sure that no one thinks: "Gosh, now that I just had a complete stranger ram a Q-Tip up my nose, I'd really like a vegan cheeseburger."

But upon my arrival at the PCR test site — at 12:45 p.m. — I found the area abandoned. No workers. No one in line for PCR tests. I quickly learn that the staff is on break, and no tests would resume until 1:30 p.m.

Somewhat relieved that I'd have more time to rest, I pulled my car in front of the sign that said in Spanish: "Wait here for your COVID-19 tests." I tilted back my car seat as far as it would go, turned SiriusXM back to the 80's station, and dozed off.

Exhausted, I had no trouble counting sheep.

I was awakened by the sound of a loud banging. Shaken I roused from my reclined seat to find a worker at the PCR site banging on my hood. The tall, Black man with glasses waves me forward. Apparently it never occurred to the worker that banging on my hood could damage the car. If it did, I would make sure to forward the bill to him.

As I pull up alongside the tall, Black man with glasses, I half-sleepily hear him ask: "Do you have an appointment?"

"No," I admit.

"This is the appointments line. You want to be in that line," the worker says, pointing to the right.

I look over my shoulder to see the line. Eight cars are waiting for PCR tests.

"But I was here before any of these people," I assure the worker.

"It doesn't matter. Just drive around and go to the end of the line," he tells me.

I'm not sure what I'm feeling now. I'm too caught in my half-doze to have much emotion. I follow the worker's instructions and drive behind the eighth car in the PCR testing line. Several minutes later, the same worker with glasses walks by each of the eight cars asking the drivers if they have appointments.

When he arrives at my car to ask me if I have an appointment, I remind him that I just told him that I didn't have an appointment.

The worker returns to the front of the line. The line isn't moving.

Several minutes later, the tall, Black man with glasses is walking past each car again. This time he's asking each driver: "Are you the one who fell asleep in your car? Are you the one who fell asleep in your car?"

I'm not sure what you get for falling asleep in your car while waiting for a PCR test, but I don't like the sound of it. I quietly hope that I'm not in for a beating falling asleep in my car.

Nevertheless, when the worker arrives at my car, and asks: "Are you the one who fell asleep in your car?," I raise my hand.

"I'll take you now," he affirms. "Drive this way," he directs me.

And just like that, I jump the queue of eight cars whose drivers were probably smoking cigars and feeding their dogs while I patiently dozed in my car, waiting for my PCR test.

Thirty seconds later, another worker, also Black — but without glasses — is asking for my ID from inside his kiosk. I hand him my driver's license. Then I wait. The worker inside the booth looks like he's typing information in a computer. After several minutes, the worker stops typing and studies my driver's license.

"Have you ever been to Yale New Haven Hospital?," he queries.

"Sure," I say. "I grew up here — but not for a while."

"You're not in the system," the worker without glasses tells me. "You're going to have to create an account."

The same worker then gives me a piece of paper with a phone number on it and tells me to pull over to a parking area and call customer service. Only after customer service creates an account for me, and sends me a link, would I be eligible to take the PCR test.

The tall worker with glasses directs me to a nearby parking area, and tells me to raise my hand once my account is created. Several minutes later, I'm raising my hand, and again I'm directed to jump the queue of eight cars.

Again, I hand the worker with no glasses my driver's license. Several minutes later, he waves me forward so that a stranger could ram a Q-Tip up each of my nostrils.

The test results would be ready in one to two days, the worker without glasses had told me. I just needed to use the link they sent me to log onto my account for the first time.

At first I struggled to set up my account — but the next morning, I called customer service again, and succeeded to log in.

I didn't have COVID-19.

After doing a quick tally, I estimated that I spent an hour getting a PCR test that should have taken me several minutes. It would have been great to have gotten the express PCR test, rather than the molasses PCR test.

But if I had gotten the express PCR test, I would have been sleepier than my father when I saw him — and he' probably be reading Uncle Jay a bedtime story.

As an extra bonus, by sleeping in my car, I got to hear Tiffany kvell over just how much she adores Madonna a fourth time. As if hearing Tiffany kvell over Madonna three times wasn't enough.

Tiffany's music selection was pretty good. Nevertheless, I turned the dial to the Classic Vinyl station for a change of pace.

Click here to subscribe to my stories.