Well, another week’s gone by. I’m whupped … again. But, at least it’s getting easier. No it’s not, who’m I kidding?
But, it’s not all bad. I’ve got my routine down, and I’m in my habits. I guess. I really, really hate buying train tickets. It messes up my routine. But then, I’d really, really hate getting gas too. That’d suck, especially since I’d be doing it probably twice a week. And don’t get me started on the tolls.
Instead, let me tell you about inconsiderate strangers and how I’m about to put into writing something I’d never thought I’d say:
I miss driving to work.
Here’s what happened today:
I got an IM from my boss, who sits one aisle over and at the opposite end of the building from me. Rather than use the phone, they send each other IMs to say little things, like “can you come here please?”. So he sends me an IM, and asks if I’ve got a minute.
Remember, I’ve been naughty lately: I’ve spent a fair amount of time doing my own thing (writing) and not much of their thing (whatever it is) over the last couple of days. (Just for the record, I’ve done nothing but their stuff for two straight days and have vowed to behave from now on. If I get a laptop or that Alphasmart Neo thing, I’ll do writing on the train, not at work.) For a second, I get this sinking feeling they’re onto me and I’m being dismissed. So, palms sweaty and butterflies fluttering in my considerable gut, I head down the aisle toward his desk.
When I get there, he gives me a pleasant greeting and shakes my hand. I see he’s holding the brochure we’ve been working on for a couple of weeks. It’s been fun. I had to get Microsoft Publisher installed, and use it to re-create something they did in Word that didn’t come out right. Since then, they’ve been tweaking it. When I see his notes jotted all over it, I realize I’m probably not being dismissed and relax. A little.
He goes over what he wants done, I ask questions, he answers, blah blah blah. Then he coughs. Into his hand, politely. The same hand I shook when I got to his desk a moment ago.
I unconsciously wipe my hand on my pants as I ask if he’s getting sick. He puts his fingertips to his throat and tells me something’s bothering it but he doesn’t feel sick … yet. All I want to do, having just recovered from a nasty cold, is run screaming to the bathroom to wash my hand.
Instead, I smile, take the brochure he’s been handling all morning, and go back to my desk. When I get there, someone comes to my desk and has a few questions. I spend time with them. Then someone comes up and starts BS’ing. So now, I’ve forgotten all about my hand-washing paranoia.
Day goes by. I do their work most of the day. Most of it.
I leave. I walk the half mile to my train, puffing, huffing, sweating and generally struggling like any fat-ass would. As I make the trek, I realize I’ve been passed by someone with an ass as wide as a Mack truck, someone who looks like they’ve just clambered out of a clown car, several women in high-heels, and some guy I swear was taking one step to my two. I figured I’d have raced past him, but noOOOOOooo … they all passed me.
I. Can’t. Keep. Up. With anyone. Period.