I’ve been setting an alarm, groping for ties in my overjammed closet, and sneaking out the door before the family wakes up for a couple of weeks now, and I can finally say I’m officially richer for the experience. (Hello, Mr. Fifteenth of the Month—a pleasure to see you again.) The honeymoon phase, while on the wane, still makes the job delightful—when I’m not inundated with New Things To Know. We’re down to bidness now, and every day is an education.
Many of my co-workers are a lot like me (nutty enough to devote themselves utterly to this type of work) and yet not like me (single and/or childless, and thus bursting with the extra time I’d sell a kidney for). So I relate and I don’t. Luckily, there’s no time to think of that or anything else, because I’m mostly still buried in paperwork (except that it’s mostly Web-based, so you could call it Webberwork, I suppose). It’s a maelstrom of expectations and protocols, so I’m spending a lot of time asking questions and playing up New-Guy Ignorance for all it’s worth.
I am also getting used to the rapturous joys of my first uptown commute on the 6, which is clogged and slow and redolent with cologne, newspapers, and coffee farts.
All of this is more than offset by the new pleasure of putting my key in the lock and hearing “Daddy’s home!” before I can even put my bag down. Robert thud-thud-thuds to the front door, hugs my knees, and pulls me into the living room to regale me of the day’s events. Like yesterday, when he asserted that, “My shoes are beds for my socks!” So, really, there ain’t much to complain about.