Someone falls asleep on the train

It had been a long day.  A really long day.  Now I know that sounds cliche, so let me try again.  The day was like grape taffy on one of those machines at the amusement park, folding over and over on itself with no sign of where it would end.  Only my day was a lot less tasty.  

Mr. Griner complained again that the coffee I made was too weak.  "Sludge water" was the scientific name he used.  Then the tennis lady, whose name I've willed myself to forget, slammed her cup on my desk and asked if I was trying to intentionally give her acid reflux disease.  She felt that the coffee was way too "coffee-like".  Then Mr. Bumbleton informed me that three of my faxes to London didn't go through-urgent wiring instructions-and it was way past the deadline.  It was a small miracle that I didn't swan-dive to my desperate end, and equally fortunate that my office was on the ground floor.

Deep breaths. Deep, cleansing breaths.  I was using Jill's remedy for on the job stress reduction.  I tried to be a believer in the whole Zen thing, I really did.  But I didn't have it in me today.  Everything had turned out just too disgustingly awful.  I ran a hand through my sticky hair and sighed.  I used too much defrizzing product this morning; my blond hair looked like the Exxon Valdez crashed into it.  I couldn't even console myself with a good hair day.

At 4:59pm and 43 seconds I boldly packed up my bag and left my desk, cluttered with post-it's, paper clips and messages I didn't have time to return because I was too busy playing Barista.  I looked down at my teal blouse, still freckled with coffee from the tennis lady's outburst.  Whew, good thing I don't have a date tonight, I kidded myself and made my way out to the noisy, bright street.  I thought about walking part way home and then splurging on a cab ride, but then I remembered the blister on my pinkie toe from an ill-fated adult ballet class and the high cab fare and I took a sharp left, past the gorgeous red roses and optimistic sunflowers the old guy sells on the corner, down to the Muni dungeon.

Lately I was feeling like a mole.  Not the greenish kind on the Wicked Witch of the West's face, but the cute kind that burrowed underground and ruined people's garden's and golf games.  I was constantly scurrying from one artificially lighted place to the next.  I bought my ticket and ran to the train, just squeezing through the doors following a large man who was sweating profusely.  People gave him a wide berth and I was able to sneak by him to a seat by the coveted window, across from some very loud (and greasy) skate rats.

Clutching my bag, I leaned against the cold, dirty window and before I knew it, the train had rocked its way to the end of the line, Ocean beach.  Eight stops past my house.  

I guess I was taking a taxi after all.