Musings of a Commuter

I realized this morning that I sorta’ enjoy walking in the early morning crisp, and sometimes biting, air of downtown Sacramento … crossing lawns dusted with frost, grass crunching underfoot, a hot Starbucks in my gloved hand, taking time to appreciate Mother Natures’ smallest contributions and inhaling air so cold it takes my breath away if I breath too deeply. I watch as the puff of hot air escapes my lips and make a mental note of just how far and wide bad breath can really travel and pat my pocket to assure myself my gum is there. I passed a couple of joggers this morning out in the pre-dawn hours and I chuckled inwardly over the irony of them hustling around in the cold and dark getting their exercise before work where they will go to earn money ….. to make their car payments.

I always walk the exact same paths crossing the streets in the exact same place each time, sitting in the exact same bus seats, standing in the exact same place on the platforms and tucking my ticket in the exact same pocket of my bag. It gives me cause to wonder if I’m a creature of habit at best, a bit obsessive-compulsive at worst as every time I walk through a parking lot I can’t keep myself from counting the steps between the lines of the parking slots checking my drum corps stride. It tickles my memory into recalling all the times I’ve bought new clothes only to get them home and discover that I already have something nearly identical to what I just bought. For instance, I’m on my third pair of the exact same black clogs and I’ve been buying black clogs for at least ten years … and the same boot cut jeans … and gray turtleneck sweaters. So I’m considering a New Year’s resolution to break the mold. Maybe get bold and cross the street in a different spot or … gasp …buy brown clogs!

I like having the time to read during the commute. There’s a library of paperback books at work for people to borrow - which is great. The troublesome part is that whoever is doing the majority of “donating” to the library has a thing for murder mysteries …… hence, I’ve been reading a lot of murder mysteries and I can’t help but wonder ……. what if I was murdered? What if being a creature of habit (or an obsessive-compulsive freak, I dunno’) and walking around downtime in the dark draws the attention of serial killers? This leads me to wonder if I was murdered what would the police would think of my wake … you know, the things I leave behind that they’d analyze in order to put together a suspect list … like the things in my junk drawer, jewelry box, nightstand drawers and even in this blog. What conclusions would they draw? I don’t have any mysterious match books, or phone numbers on insignificant scraps of paper so what would they use to find my killer? Would I be a person who’s murder would be worthy of 30 seconds on the nightly news or would the investigation be over in an afternoon. Most importantly, what’s the guy doing the autopsy gonna’ say? Wink, wink, hubba, hubba, hey baby want another donut! On the one hand I know there’s a lot of evil in the world and find myself wondering what happens if it crosses my path? On the other hand, it’s sometimes hard for me to believe in evil when none of my deals with the devil ever pan out.

I don’t know if it’s my recent empty nestedness (if that’s even a word) or my ruminations on being murdered that have made me a bit paranoid about coming home to an empty house (“my house is dark and my pots are cold” <$1 to Santana>. One evening I actually found myself just standing outside my front door staring at it and being afraid to open it …. sigh … I need to buy a novel that’s a love story or something.

When I get home at night my cat Mo is always huddled on the welcome mat waiting for me. Last night when he saw me he stretched, he yawned and then lifted his leg in a yoga-like imitation as he licked his butt. I found myself hoping that Mo's current posture was not a sideways commentary on what he thinks of me as a person and I unlocked the door and let him in. My dog Ted was waiting just inside the door, tail wagging and a look of pure innocence pasted on his mug so that I wouldn't recognize that he’s just jumped off the futon, throw rug, or wherever he’s been that he’s not supposed to be. Unfortunately, the paper plate in his mouth, poised in an imitation of him serving hors d’oeuvres, is a dead give away to the fact that he's been in the garbage ... again. Sigh. Seeing both animals there I know all is well inside the house because 1) Mo would head for the hills if he saw a stranger and 2) anything with evil intent on it’s mind would have laughed itself to death seeing Teddy serving hors d’oeuvres ... so I went inside.