Carless in Centerville II

There are very few times I rue my transportational inabilities. Today was, sort of, one of them. But not really. I regretted the bus ride today because it was dreadfully long due to some bus stick-age that lasted nigh unto a half hour. However, when I stopped and thought about it, I didn't regret that half hour at all--because I read for all of it. And people driving cars don't have chances like that to read books. And, let's be honest, if I got home quickly, I would not have devoted that half hour to reading. Instead, I would have cleaned my room, practiced the song I should be perfecting in my position as choir accompanist, written in my journal, and performed any evening duties that needed to get done. And then, if I had left over time, I probably would have felt tired, crashed, and watched TV. Actually, that's a slight lie. My dad and I are going to see the Young Ambassadors (quite the opposite of what Chichikov peddles) perform at the Conference Center Theater tonight . . . but still, you catch my drift.

In other news, I have done the unthinkable. Nothing that unthinkable! Pull your mind out of the gutter. What I have done is this: I have romanticized my job. Not in a particularly effusive manner on this blog (at least, I don't think it was that effusive), but often in conversation with other people. Perhaps it began because I was so ecstatic to get a job that didn't involve sitting at a desk for the entire eight hours. Or because I was delighted to see a certain lack of monotony. But, like all jobs, my job has its imperfections: hours of mapping out HR statistics on Excel, a cantankerous copier--older than I am--that the company refuses to replace yet because it still shows some signs of functionality (every time I use it, I swear I can hear it saying, "I'm not dead yet" . . . and in a Cockney accent too), a co-worker who does not know the meaning of the words "shower," "breathmint," "deodorant," or "lotion" . . . It's not perfect. And I've recently stopped myself from over-romanticizing it. Otherwise I get disappointed when my day at work is less than excessively interesting.

But there's one thing that I could not possibly be over-romanticizing: I have my own office! With a window!