On the way in to the city I read the paper. An indulgence that I have not known for a good four years. Yes folks, I can now read the paper sometimes even cover to cover. Of course by that I mean skipping all of the boring stories (an ancient shoe is discovered in a cave preserved with sheep dung!), the stories I simply don't care about, although I probably should (Poland heads into runoff for President), and the ones I can no longer bare to read about (Suicide Bomber Kills At Least 33 in Iraq) and I read the ones that hold my attention. (AKA: Fluff)
On the commute home I read a novel. Over the past several months I have completed Love The One Your With, Still Alice, The Things We Do For Love, We Need To Talk About Kevin and I am just finishing up The Prayer Room. It has been fantastic. I haven't read this much since I was forced to in college.
This is The Routine. Don't mess with The Routine.
But today, The Routine got screwed. I forgot my book. Forgot it. Left sitting useless on my dresser. Collecting dust. Unloved. Alone.
And I, realizing the error of my ways at the office was disappointed, yet hopeful. Perhaps I can pick up an Us Weekly on the way to the train and find out how much more weight Jennifer Hudson has lost or how many more kids Angelina and Brad are planning to adopt. Hurray!
But no. No. You see, it must be assumed that the working people of San Francisco do not read. Unlike the busy streets of Manhattan where one can find a news stand that conveniently sells everything from the New York Times to Playboy every 2 feet, there are none to be found in the the city by the bay. None. In fact on my entire ten plus block walk down Battery Street I could not even find a 7-11 type shop that would per chance sell a periodical.
So I was forced to face the long train ride empty handed. And I was pissed. PISSED. This you see, is my time. My precious time alone. Time I can't avoid and is mine all mine without an ounce of guilt. And I want to use it well. I want to read my book and lose myself for 35 blessed minutes in another place. And I screwed it up.
Now left without any form of reading material the 35 minutes seems utterly wasted. What am I to do? Strike up a conversation with the stranger next to me? Tattooed covered and rocking out on his Ipod. I think not. There is nothing to do. Nothing but time to stare at my own hands, count the stops until I am home and compose, in my head, the lovely blog post that you now have the privilege of reading.
Next time don't let me forget.