Speaking Confidentially: 21 October 1997


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treeA morning of almosts with justs, instead of almosts with not quites

My bus has been coming later in the past few weeks so today I left my house a little later. As I strolled to the corner I saw that my bus was about to make the turn to my stop, so I began to sprint. I ripped the pin from my hair (knowing that my bun wouldn't survive), scurried across the intersection my bus had just turned at, and watched in dismay as it pulled away. It's supposed to wait for another connecting bus that arrived at the stop the same time I did, but it didn't, proceeding to the next stop. Both the other bus and I sped along to meet my bus at the next stop, and there my bus did wait for a large number of disgorged passengers from the other bus. Like Ping, I was the last of them, but I did make it. Aha! It was a different driver.

I paused just behind the yellow line to show her my pass and then sank into my accustomed seat, next to a smoker whose acquaintance I have avoided making. He know my name, though, and said, "Good morning, Lisa." I've forgotten his name, and replied, "It is now." I was on the bus. Which pulled into the station two minutes ahead of its scheduled time instead of the usual two or three minutes past the scheduled time, so I wasn't late. Poop. But I was on the bus anyway.

Then when I got to my building, trudging instead of springing up the escalator, the doors of an elevator closed as I approached. But someone on board saw me and opened the doors just in time, which I thought was quite nice. As if there'd never be another elevator, but it was nice.

Lessons from today:


I finished some projects at work and now am waiting for others' contributions. I did the laundry. I added a few days of entries. Let's see if I can upload them. Or if I hem my skirt or roll the coins or add to my scrapbook.


Ping is a book my mother gave me for Easter one year about a duckling who lived in a boat on the banks of the Yangtze River with countless aunts brothers cousins and other relatives (all waiting for the pot). They were allowed to forage freely all day, but when the sun set, the boatman would whistle them all back to the boat. The last in line would get a switch to his tush. One evening, Ping was bottoms-up when the man whistled and he decided that rather than be switched, he wouldn't get on the boat at all. He has adventures all that night and the next day and considers himself quite lost until, near sunset, he hears a familiar whistle, by which time he doesn't care if he gets spanked, he just wants to be home. Now that I think about it I wonder if this is a lesson against running away and how scary it is to be independent and that's why my mother gave it to me. Hmm.

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Last modified 21 October 1997

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