The Queen of 8:03
A friend of mine wrote in my high school year book, "Rosie will be late to her own funeral". Bastard. You totally knew a guy wrote that didn't you? Not very nice is it? I mean he only knew me for three years. How could he possibly judge whether or not I would be late to anything after high school? So I was late to a couple of Sr. Class Council meetings. Big deal. Everyone knows high school is NOT real life... Don't they?
Flash ahead over many, many years. Kids, jobs, church, funerals, baby showers and weddings. Some years I've done better than others. Trust me when I tell you that I have a long history and genetics against me, but I've worked darn hard to be on time to stuff and for stuff.
Sometimes there's construction on the freeway (right SL?) or a diaper has to be changed before you leave the house, or you have ants in your microwave.
I mean I might have had to sneak into church during the processional song, but I was always in my pew before the priest reached the altar. There may have been a time or two that as a front door was closing I might have been dodging traffic to cross a street to get to a shower (baby or bridal) on time.
Red lights. The babysitter is late. Whatever. It's life. Let me introduce myself. My name is Rosie. I'm the poster girl for STUFF HAPPENS.
Last year I was never late to work. Shmoo went to high school very nearby and his school started a half an hour before I was scheduled to start. Consequently, I was never late. I was...EARLY.
Anyway, our area has grown considerably (again!) in the past year. A little over a year ago it took me 17 minutes to get to Shmoo's school and then a couple of minutes to work. Right about the time Shmoo graduated the drive was taking 20 minutes.
Now, by all that's holy, if I want to be to work on time I have to leave my house by 7:30! I've been pushing the 8 AM start time and cutting it closer and closer. I've become the Queen of 8:03. I consistently arrive at work at 8:03 every morning. You realize that if I planned to do this it would be impossible.
It's just not right. Work is 11 miles away. E-L-E-V-E-N. 11 miles. It's deranged that it takes 30 minutes to drive across our little valley. It's not like I live in Manhattan or anything. Are you sensing a little resentment here?
Fortunately my boss is tolerant and finds my morning rants on my commute amusing. ::Side note: It's no longer a drive to work. A drive to work is 15 minutes. Once you hit a half hour it's a commute! End Side Note::
What I don't understand is why on the mornings that I really, really, really try to be on time (by leaving my home 30 freaking minutes before I'm due at work) something always happens. Detour. Road construction. Traffic accident. Something. What. Is. Up. With. That.
Do not believe this picture. That woman has to drive for 30 minutes to go 11 miles. She's not not really that happy. She's actually nuts. Crazy. Maniacal. Be careful. She's out there.