It's 7:40 p.m. on a Friday night. I'm waiting for an outbound train that is supposed to arrive at 7:41 p.m. The question occurs to me: Am I the only person in the world who is happy to have an hour-long ride home in which to read and unwind?
This seems odd. Certainly it is at odds with the every-second-is-precious philosophy that consumes most commuters. I could drive to work and forgo the books. It's not like crowded highways are an issue in Sacramento when I go to work at 11 a.m. or travel home after 7 p.m..
No, it's the books. I crave the reading time, and I just don't have the discipline to set aside the time to read at home.
Tonight I didn't even mind -- well, OK, just a little -- when I arrived at 65th Street and realized I had been blocked into an extra 15-minute wait for the next No. 82 bus. I sat down at the base of a street light and read my book. The bus arrived 10 minutes early, and the driver allowed me and two other passengers to wait inside while he went off somewhere.
Dog-tired from the grind my job has become, seated in a warm, well-lit bus, the ride home reading my book was just fine with me.