How Much is Your Commute Worth?

I don't have a good commute to work. No, I'd characterize it as great. Or maybe even wonderful.

While Bridget and most of the Northeast struggle through the last few weeks of driving in the snow and ice of another brutal winter, I can't help but think of how lucky I am. Most people drive at least 25 minutes to work (the average in the US in 25.4) on crowded highways. I stroll through Harvard Yard while I listen to NPR. Most people drive among a mix of reckless idiots and angry jerks. I sometimes pass people in front of me because I tend to be a fast walker. Most people drive to a gas station at least once a week to fill up. I occasionally stop at one of the three Starbucks I pass on my way into the office.

I'm not saying any of this to be annoying; believe me, I realize how incredibly lucky I am. I'm saying all of this because I wonder what it's all worth. What's the value of a commute?

Let's try to find out. And let's use me as an example because, well, I'm writing this. (Who else would we use?)

How much money do I save every year because I get to walk 1.1 miles from my apartment in Cambridge to my office in Harvard Square (still Cambridge)? We'll start with the easy car-related stuff:

• Car payment: If we estimate this at $300 per month, that means it's $3,600 per year. 
• Car insurance: When I had a car, I paid about $80 per month. That's $960 for the year.
• Parking: There are lots of great perks that come with working in Harvard Square. Parking is not one of them. Let's estimate this at about $15 per day. Multiply that by 220 working days in a year and that's another $3,300.
• Gas: With a standard commute, we'll put this at $40 per week. Multiply that by 52 weeks and there's another $2,080.
• General upkeep: Oil changes, wipers, random stuff that goes wrong with the car. Let's just say $1,000 here to be conservative.

So, all tallied, we're at $10,940.

Now it gets tricky. Now we have to assign a monetary value to exercise, stress, and time. Here goes:

• Exercise: Rain or snow, whether it's 77 degrees or 7 degrees, I walk both ways every day. (There are a few exceptions, of course, but let's say every day.) That's 2.2 miles per day and, assuming 220 work days per year, 484 miles per year. For the sake of argument, let's say every mile walked is equal to five dollars of good health. That's obviously not scientific in any way, but it's a round number and it seems reasonable if you think about it. That's $2,420 per year.
• Time: My commute ranges from 15 minutes to 20 minutes. I'm a pretty fast walker and there aren't a whole lot of trouble spots. I do have to wait at 2-3 crosswalks (depending on which way I go), but it mostly comes down to the speed of the heel-toe express. Let's say I average 20 minutes to keep it simple. That's five minutes less than the national average, which equals 1,100 minutes or 18.3 hours per year. If we say a person's time, on average, is worth $25 per hour, then we land at $458 in savings. (That was a lot of work for a little savings.) 
• Stress: I never have to deal with traffic jams, slippery roads, or construction. And I don't really have to pay attention while I walk. I can use that 20 minutes at the end of the day to decompress after a stressful meeting or think about what I should make for dinner. To me, that savings is huge, at least $20 per commute. That equals $40 per day, so I'm going to add $8,800 to the tally. And then if I leave work around 5 PM, which I try my best to do every day, I get home to spend two hours with my family before Annabelle goes to bed. Basically, I'm home at 5:20 instead of 5:50, which seems like a reasonable estimate for the average commuter with traffic, travel time, and parking. That extra half hour of family time is worth far more than our $25 per hour rate. I could obviously argue that the time is invaluable and impossible to measure, but then we wouldn't have a number at the end. Let's say those hours are worth $100. So, $50 per day equals $11,000 per year.  

That section adds up to $22,678, which gives us a grand total of $33,618. That's pretty damn significant. I realize, of course, that I won't be this lucky for the rest of my life. I've had annoying commutes in the past and I'll have annoying commutes in the future. 

But it's nice to have this in perspective. And, more importantly, it makes me realize I better start enjoying every penny.

My Fantasy Football Widow

Let me start by saying, "Sorry, Bridget." Every year, it's the same. We spend the months of spring coming out of our cocoon, spending time Kindling in Harvard Yard and shuffling off to some vacation destination. During downtime, we spend our free time watching entertaining television -- stuff like the "The Newsroom" and "Happy Endings." (Please don't knock "Happy Endings" until you try it.) Then summer comes and we fill our schedule with more trips, exercise, weddings, romantic dinners, and care-free love. Sweet, right? Awww. They are so in love.

Then two words happen: fantasy football.

Now, I wouldn't call Bridget a fantasy football widow, but ... actually, yes I would. That's exactly what she is. Like so many loving, understanding partners, she stands quietly by as I pore over statistics and stress about whether to start Jordy Nelson or Eric Decker. (Seriously. If you're knowledgable, who should I use in Week 1?) And the thing about football is that it takes a while. It takes a while every Sunday and it takes a while every year. Provided my fantasy teams (I have two) don't stink, I'll be making lineup decisions up until Christmas.

I should pause and say something here: "Sorry, Bridget."

I started playing fantasy football 10 years ago. As a sportswriter in New Hampshire, I joined the league at our newspaper. I left the newspaper, but never left the league. And now, a decade into it, I head up to Keene once a year to see old friends, make my picks, and pretend this year will be different. (Spoiler: It never is. I stink.) I've been in several other leagues and now act as commissioner of my work league down here in Cambridge. And I absolutely love both of them. I love the trash talk. I love "owning" a whole new group of players every year. I love reading Matthew Berry's Love/Hate columns.

Now, it's not that I don't love Bridget when the season kicks off. I do -- very much -- but it's safe to say my priorities change a bit. Want to go out for dinner? I would, but the Saints kick off in 20 minutes and I have Brees. Want to take Oscar for a walk? I mean, I do, but I kind of need to watch Sidney Rice for the next three hours because I'm down by five points and he just needs to catch one damn touchdown.

So, again: "Sorry, Bridget."

Bridget, as always, does her best to like my hobbies or at least suffer what I'm doing. She'll sit next to me while I watch useless pre-game shows and does a great job of cooking up some delicious meals every Sunday around 2 p.m. But I know deep in her heart, she wishes her husband wasn't so into fantasy football. She wishes it was just a hobby and not an obsession. But, well, she kind of signed up for this when she said, "I do."

Someday, something may change. But for now, this is the best I've got, darling: "Sorry, Bridget."

Kindling in Harvard Yard, or How We Really Met

Earlier this week, on the 4th, in fact, I was chatting with Bridget's good friend, Laura. We sat out on our deck, sipped beer, listened to Bruce Springsteen (well, we should have been) and talked about meeting and falling in love. Not us, of course. Just the idea. (Bridget was inside booking our latest vacation.)

Laura told me the story about her parents and how they fell in love. In a nutshell (and forgive me if I'm butchering this at all, Laura), her parents, both starry-eyed singles at the time, were both on a cruise somewhere in Europe. It was the last night of the trip and, as luck would have it, there was one bottle of champagne left on the ship. They both reached for it at the same time, locked eyes, and said, "Well, we might as well drink this together." A  Transatlantic, long distance relationship ensued and decades later, they are still together today. Wonderful, right? Sweet, wholesome, and warm.

It got me thinking about the beginnings of me and Bridget and, well, it's not very good. It's actually fairly clunky. This stinks because people -- and our children will, at some point -- ask, "How did you guys meet?"And up to this point, we tell some variation of this:

Bridget and I worked together, but didn't really know each other. Then she worked remotely for a bit, got a new job, and lived in Baltimore for a few years. So you could say, we'd heard of each other, but that was it. In 2010, we started chatting at our mutual friend Kate's birthday party in Salem and realized we got along pretty well. Then, taking full advantage of the romance of technology, we started Facebook chatting, texting, and dating. Romantic, right? Not so much. Clunky. Pretty lame paragraph if you ask me.

And I've decided it's time to officially change it. To what, you ask? To Kindling in Harvard Yard!

As we started dating in the summer of 2010, we realized we both liked to be outside and we both liked to read. Our weekend afternoons quickly became filled with slow, slightly awkward walks down Oxford St. with our Kindles in our hands. We'd sit for hours and split the time between reading, talking, and people watching. (Our book choices were and are always quite different -- she recently polished off 50 Shades of Grey in about 45 minutes and I just finished a great baseball read called The Bullpen Gospels.) Today, we share many hobbies -- running, blogging, drinking good wine, eating good food, to name a few -- but Kindling in Harvard Yard is still our favorite. And really, as I thought more about it, that stands out as how we really met and how we fell in love.

So the next time someone asks -- or the first time I tell my son or daughter about it -- I'm going to take a page out of Laura's parents' book. (Pun not intended. Okay, maybe it a was a little ...). Here goes:

"You see, son, we were both walking around Harvard Yard one sunny, Saturday afternoon. Then, out of the corner of our eyes, we saw a single Kindle resting on a purple chair. We both thought it was ours, so we reached for it at the same time, locked eyes, and said, 'Well, we might as well read this together.' And the rest is history ..."

Yeah, I like that much better.