I didn’t think I’d like getting up early and commuting to an office, but it’s a lot nicer than I thought. Sure, my throat is still dry and swollen from the recirculated air, and I still have trouble getting out of bed at seven instead of nine (or later.) But once I’m up and moving, I’m on the train reading something (today, an article in Harper’s about the gay-marriage rift in the Episcopal church and how it’s a distraction from the important work of the church on issues everyone agrees about, like feeding the hungry and ministering to the sick.)
And then I get out at Park Street and walk up the Freedom Trail toward the Golden Dome, eavesdropping on cell-phone calls about state legislature (“no, they sent it to committee, it’s not going to get done this session…”) and business (“We need the RFP in by Tuesday!”), past the old-school barbershop (at $16, it’s more than my corner haircut joint in Somerville, but still a bargain – the barber talked to me about good and evil while cutting my hair, and he keeps a stack of motorcycle magazines and Playboys for while you’re waiting).
And on the far side of the hill, I’m up on the 17th floor, trying to be helpful. It’s good. This company has been around for fifty years, and although we have deadlines, nobody’s got the insane intensity I used to see at my first job. Nor is there the sense of futile absurdity I felt in later positions.
It’s just functional. I had no idea such a thing could possibly exist. It’s kind of awesome.
Secretly Ironic 