Friday night lights

I just discovered a blog entry I never published. At the time, I was settling into a new job. It’s ironic that I find it almost exactly one year later when I’m looking for a new position. The blog entry was in draft mode and is dated 7/18/16:

“Since the first day at my new job in Boston, I’ve missed the 5:07 train twice. The express follows thirty minutes later but regardless, both were on a Friday. Last week, I still managed to get to an early movie with my girlfriend. Tonight I decided to manage my blog and hang out with you fine people.

I just updated the settings on my site and took a few photos to share with you:

My new gym membership – 150 steps

I didn’t “run” the steps this evening but walking up still left me winded.

My new best friends

I leave my stilettos at the office and rely on Merrill street shoes for the commute.

Commuter rail train

Arrival of the train is always a welcome sight to the Sheldon Cooper in me!

Thanks for joining.  I know I’m not sitting here alone.

This Friday night I’m with my 1,000+ followers.  Thanks for hanging out with me!”

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What are you scheduled to do this weekend?

Time is of the essence

I watched the clock like Cinderella monitoring midnight. At a coffee shop near my upcoming interview, I  awaited the exact time to run down the plaza steps. Showing up a little early, but not too early, is key to the start of a successful interview. For Cinderella, it was the difference between a coachman and a mouse.

Twenty minutes. I’d always heard a candidate should arrive early but not by more than twenty minutes. No more. Never more. 

Precisely twenty-two minutes before  my interview time, I arose from my mocha sofa to walk to the front entrance I’d been watching with my vanilla chai for the past half hour. I added at least two extra minutes to register with security and take an elevator to the third floor.

I presented my license to Roland, the security guard, whom printed my ID and pointed me toward the elevator bank marked 1 – 15, where a quarter of the building rush hour was coming and going for lunch.

As I turned toward the elevators to beam me up, a man probably named Scottie and holding a Panera bag pushed the arrow button. I glanced up and noticed this cove of elevators was also marked “A” through “F”.  Right away, I heard multiple electronic bells as three of the doors opened in unison and a very fast paced musical-chair-like activity ensued all around me. Everyone was moving to their elevator of choice. It reminded me of when people run to their favorite horse on a carousel. I knew the elevators all went up and down, I just didn’t know which one to choose. Since my interview was on the third floor, I didn’t panic when I was involuntarily herded onto elevator “C”.  My anxiety only increased when I noticed there was no number panel, to make a floor selection, on the inside of the elevator. I hoped I was either on “Candid Camera” or “Let’s Make A Deal”.  The doors opened, we all got off and I was on the wrong floor. There was no Allen Funt – only the word ‘Zonk’ in my head. It was the 11th floor.

I knew I was still in Boston but I felt like I had arrived in Munchkin land. All the citizens of my elevator quickly disappeared, hidden behind secured glass doors. I stood there, as alone as Dorothy. I took in my surroundings, turned and noticed a clear bubble in front of me. A plastic translation panel was centered between the elevators. Entering a floor number translated the elevator letter. I’ll refer to that kiosk as Glenda. I was now on my yellow brick road.

I pushed the down arrow, waited for elevator “A” to open and properly arrived on the third floor. I was personally greeted by a phone on the wall. This time I knew the code. I dialed the extension for the internal recruiter, whom said she’d be right out.  I posed outside my elevator carriage and awaited my escort. The ball was about to begin. 

Or so I thought. 

The recruiter arrived, peeked slightly outside the door and said, “We’re not quite ready for you yet.” 

She added, “Can you go back to the lobby and come back in fifteen minutes?”

Shit. 

Now I really was in the land of Oz. I had to wait to see the wizard.

I went back downstairs to gather some courage, find heart, and use my brain.

And oh yeah, watch the clock.

Park & Post

Like Ortiz, I hit it out of the park today. Not that I know how Big Papi feels racking up another solo homer and surpassing Mickey Mantle. Rather, I was  the guy in left field watching David’s pitch fly over my head and the green monster. I was helpless when I missed my train in a big way. The commuter rail passed through town – right alongside my car. All I could do was witness my double-decker meal ticket fading into the distance. 

Three strikes and I was out:

The first strike didn’t matter. It was like taking the first one to size up the pitcher. I’d doubled back into the house to give my daughter a hug. She’d come home from college for the night but would be back in the dorms when I got home. I knew I was up against the clock but it was worth it.

Strike two was a rookie mistake. I should have known the bus routes start up again in September. Just before I crossed the tracks, I caught up to a bus awaiting some high schoolers. Boy, those kids move slowly. The bus stop sign was out, so I couldn’t get around that pitch. 

Two strikes but I was still confident at the plate. 

Baseball is batter versus pitcher and I had one more strike. I wasn’t concerned about missing the train.  On the other side of the tracks was the village and the commuter station. I just needed to park, grab my bag for the day, and if needed, run to the depot while people boarded.

The bus finally moved ahead but the railroad crossing started flashing in front of it. When I heard the whistle confirm an oncoming train, I referred to the clock on my dashboard. I still had four minutes. 

What the hell? 

The commuter rail is like clockwork, so why were the gates already coming down? Heading East to Boston was suddenly a challenge. I tensed up in my Camry batter’s box  as I watched a slow freight train heading West on the opposite track. 

When I watch MLB, I like a good caboose as much as the next chick. I wanted to see the end on this train like none other.  After 5,000 railroad cars, I finally saw its caboose.

The bus and our few cars crossed over the tracks. As I waited to turn into town, the railroad crossings came down behind me this time. My commuter train was approaching.

 It was my wild pitch.  I saw it coming and planned my strategy.  If I swung quickly past the storefronts, I could slide into one of the parking spots and run as hard as I could toward my first base tracks.

The train proved to be faster than my car though. It ran along the hillside to my left and was soon too far ahead. Passengers finished boarding just as I arrived. I looked for a parking spot as the conductor climbed back up the stairs. 

“Wait! One more!”, I yelled with immediacy and embarrassment. The conductor shrugged his shoulders not able to  get the engineer to stop my 12-ton ride to the city.  I sighed in my driver’s seat and was left at the plate looking. I watched as my fellow commuters waved good-bye to me from their window seats on the train.

Unlike Ortiz, this was my first solo but I’d done it in a major league way. The train surpassing me by seconds was even worthy of a replay.

What I’m trying to express, is that I missed the express.