Ride. Walk. Work. Repeat.

The commuting life is not for the faint of wills. There exists a stubbornness, a mass that wedges itself deep down inside your work ethic, somewhere within hearing distance of a perpetual inner dialogue. The voice rattles the rib cage saying "hurryupbuytheticketismystopnextwhattimeisitgetOUTOFMYWAY!" A soft Recorder rendition of the Pixie's "Monkey Gone to Heaven" sometimes cuts in during brief moments of stationary waiting.

One particularly epic bout of travel happened two weeks ago. I arrived at the bus stop. Passengers snaked down the border of the cement lot. There were too many of us. I knew it even before the Driver pulled in and assessed the crowd. We peered at him with bleary eyes, some clutching suitcases, others gnawing on bagels procured from briefcases. In a halting tone, the Driver explained that the earlier run had gone missing, sucked into a highway black hole mistaken for an exit. There weren't enough seats for everyone. His speech was of little use. Any excuse amounted to the same simple fact - we were going to be late. Normally, tardiness was classified as an unfortunate complication. But on this day, The First Day of a new job, the delay took on a deeper meaning. I approached the Driver, intending to be a calm negotiator. He took a few steps back, wary of rebuke. I placed what felt like a smile on my face and asked when the next bus was due. He glanced at his clipboard.

"Thirty minutes."

My facade faltered.

"No, sorry. I need an alternative."

I stared at him.

He began to fidget.

"Uh...I don't know what to say. I mean, I guess you could stand."

And that is how I ended up in the 8:10's isle, sandwiched between a terse Asian Accountant and a balding man wearing a starch-stained shirt. My fingers ached from clutching the baggage compartment above me, my teeth were clenched from sudden stops. On my resume I had claimed that I was innovative, a forward thinker. If my Boss could have seen me right then, there is little doubt he wouldn't agree...

Thankfully, I didn't have to hang on for too long. The intercom spit static. Another route had been notified. All misplaced passengers would be switched. The Driver pulled over. We stumbled out to a second idling bus, a pathetic achy trio.

The incident has caused me to reflect on my evolving impressions of commuting. For awhile, the process was all about leaving - a preoccupation with my return home. Recently the urge has been replaced with a desire to stay. Tunnels and roads take me away from where I want to be as opposed to sending me back to where I belong. For now each evening ends with a goodbye. However, I am trying to be patient. Traffic doesn't bother me as much. At the very least it keeps me there a bit longer.