Time Is On My Side, Yes It Is
Once upon a time, teen me worked in retail (a bookstore!) and was a soulless slave to the clock. All employees--even the managers--had official timecards, the kind you punch in one of those scary machines painted army green and constructed of industrial-grade equipment that could withstand nuclear attack, not that I ever thought of detaching it from the wall via bomb or short-range missile. Being at work meant always being on the clock, and although I seem to enjoy structure more than a lot of people, it got to be a little much after a while. I had exactly 30 minutes for lunch--not 29 and certainly not 31--and exactly 15 minutes per 6-hour shift to hide in the break room and temporarily detox from icky customers (always with the dirty books in the bathroom; why?!) by reading Jewel's latest volume of heartfelt poetry.
For a few months, my work in books also overlapped with my work in newspapers, and perhaps the contrast in schedules made each more bearable. I usually started my day at the paper around 4 p.m., staying officially until my tasks were "done," but staying unofficially until I stopped having fun--typically well past midnight. There were geeky writer boys everywhere, a full-size basketball hoop in the layout office, and Blind Date on the teevee in the main hall. It beat going home to the bedroom in the basement of my parents' house.
These days, in my current job, everyone pretty much comes and goes as they please. I get to work anywhere between 8 a.m. and 10:30 and leave between 5 and 9, often depending on the presence of free food. Along with the purchase of my new car, however, came the promise of an even more relaxed schedule. No more waking up early if he had a meeting, no more staying late if he got stuck on a job. I could decide my own working hours once again, and I was looking forward to the freedom.
If you are expecting a "But," you're onto me.
BUT somehow having my own car has made my beholdenness (beholdence?) to the clock even more acute. The culprit? The dreaded parking meter.
If I want to park at my local BART station and take the train to work (save gas, save the whales), I have to get to the lot before 9 a.m. (agony) and fork over almost $7 for the day's transportation. This morning I tried to park in a different BART lot--one that would only cost $4/day--only to realize it is smaller and therefore full faster and earlier, which, being that it's also farther from home, means to secure a spot I'd have to wake up another thirty minutes earlier (torture). Thus it is that this morning I drove all the way to work and parked at a meter for the abusive cost of $10 in quarters and dimes, plus gas, plus the emotional trauma of having to feed the meter in the middle of the day and be accosted by the friendly neighborhood letch.
So here I sit, having been done with work now for twenty minutes, but dammit if I'm going to abandon my pre-paid parking spot even one minute too soon, thereby wasting 35 minutes of asphalt. Yes, it's only fifty cents but I am stubborn. For the rest of the time I sit at my desk, I'll check the clock every 90 seconds and then leave with just enough time to ride the elevator, cross the street, and walk to the lot. If I get to my car even five minutes early, I'll likely sit in the spot watching the time tick all the way down, at the rate of one and one-fourth cents per sixty seconds, just on sheer principle.
(Maybe also I'm in no hurry to get home because Simon has a late meeting and won't be around when I get there. What fun is it to barrell down the highway in my flashy wagon when there's no one home to greet me? No one, that is, except the cat, who will have dragged her yellow bear to the center of the Oriental rug and then barfed proudly next to it. Simon, I found out a few weeks ago, has been cleaning up Eve's semi-regular afternoon barfs for months, which surely adds to my reluctance to go home. No one to compliment my boobs + a slime of catfood left as a calling card? Hardly the open arms I need.)
Your boobs are great! And your hair is so soft. Sorry I can't hug you.
xoxoxo
You know it's love when he cleans up the cat barf without telling you.
(I am so spoiled. Our cats almost never barf.)
Does your employer do that pre-tax transportation credit thing? The places I worked always did that, and so BART and the bus were a little bit cheaper.
Oh, parking meters and time clocks! Lived with the former during college and about a year of my worklife. Time clocks, did that for about a year as well. Suckt!
In my house, "cat barf" is what the dog does after he eats one of the neighbor's wayward pets. Kidding!
I'm still in newspapers, and it's trying to still be a geeky writer/editor boy that really stinks. Late meetings and work work work is really putting a crimp in my family life. But I've got free parking, so that's something for now.
Oy. I am SO GLAD to live in a city where having a car is complete nonsense. And my company pays for my quarterly transport pass (good for the metro, the tram, AND the bus) AND my work is only a 6 minute tram ride away. Maybe that's why I've been feeling so relaxed lately...
Sometimes I miss being 'on the clock'. Now that I'm salaried, if I figured out how much I actually make per hour that I work, it would probably be a very sad and pathetic figure. It is nice not to have to worry about leaving early to go to an appointment, or being late because of traffic, though. I guess the grass is always greener...
Nothing says, "I love you" like cleaning up cat vomit! It seems you cannot win for losing.....sounds sadly like my own life!
That is the best blog post ending ever. Thanks for making me laugh!
i lost you. and now i've found you again. yay! for me. : )
i have a lot of catching up to do.