I Think it’s Time I Better Call Saul

The story of how Jimmy McGill became Saul Goodman is a fictional one, but last night when I was watching the latest episode on AMC, I could swear it was a mirror image of my life. I got home from a slow night at work, turned on the TV, and suddenly I could see me staring back at myself from a show about a criminal lawyer that is set in the past. No, I’m not a lawyer by any means, and I am no longer a criminal, but what caught my attention was how Jimmy was trying to find his identity in a new town at a new job when all he really wanted to do in life was to be happy and do the right thing.  Why can’t those two things go hand in hand?

In essence, that’s what I’ve been doing. Granted, I am not out there shopping for colorful suits, I didn’t have a huge signing bonus that I can’t afford to give back, and my story takes place in Seattle instead of Albuquerque, but just for last night there were so many striking similarities between Jimmy and Saul and I that I woke up this morning feeling like we were the same person, at least for forty four minutes.

Spoiler alert, for those of you who haven’t seen the TV show Breaking Bad, I’m not going to ruin any of it for you as this story takes place before and after that series. This isn’t so much a blog about television as it is a blog about how what I saw on television was so much like my life right now, that I had to comment on it. Jimmy, like myself has always been a square peg, but man how much we both try really hard to fit into a round hole.

I’m a creative person by nature, but I chose to leave the world of massive creativity behind when I left L.A. for Seattle in an effort to try and do the right thing by working my ass off to pay for my debt that I put myself in the last two years in Hollywood. I went into debt because I believed in what I was doing. I don’t mean a small debt like “I owe it to myself” I mean a pretty large debt that is the equivalent to one years worth of tuition to a semi-prestigious college somewhere where in the pacific northwest, or southwest depending on inflation.

Much like Jimmy, I got everything I wanted. The job, the second job, the “coco bolo” desk that I tried real hard to put together the other week, but in reality my desk was from IKEA, and everything I wanted wasn’t in a desk job. Eventually, Jimmy finds a way to get fired from his job so he can keep his signing bonus and go into private practice by himself in a future episode and become the grifty Saul Goodman that I know and love. But the thing is, that’s where the similarities stop and where my life starts to kick in.

Maybe I haven’t been very honest with myself, or maybe it has just become second nature for me to think that I want something, get it, and then decide it’s not for me anymore. My “Kim Wexler” reminds me not to be crazy and to remember that I have only been here two months to the day and I have accomplished a lot in those 60 days. Sure, I agree with her in theory, but then I start to see something I thought was so secure and tight begin to unravel. Maybe it was just a slow Monday,when I barely made thirty-five bucks, and maybe there was a reason that Jack in the Box burger made me feel nauseated before the end of the show. Regardless, the doubt began to manifest and I had to start questioning myself and wonder am I just like Jimmy, a square peg trying to fit into a place where he doesn’t naturally belong?

Much like the character on the show, I find myself bending the rules a little bit like I always have so life suits me better. I find myself taking a calculated risk to get to the place I need to go quicker, but no amount of back roads or shortcuts are going to get me where I need to go. I am doing what I thought was the best thing for me because it was honest, and don’t get me wrong, I believe honestly is always the best policy, but guess what….winning the lottery or robbing a bank would solve my problem in a heartbeat and I think if I got away with the latter or was lucky enough to hit the former, I would be able to deal with the ethical backlash, no problem.

I know I’m not stuck anywhere, and I know that I could get up and leave this all behind like I have three times before, but what would that prove? I can change my outfit like a chameleon to match what I see on the outside, but the truth is I don’t feel like someone who tucks in their shirt, and I won’t bring myself to do that anyway.

I know I’m going to end up being me, just like Jimmy/Saul did, but I don’t think I need to change my shirt or my name to do that. One reason is because I already did change my name back in 2002 when Better Call Saul actually takes place, the other reason is because I can’t afford a new shirt right now. Wow, the similarities are almost too much for me to handle.

I’m not going to sabotage this opportunity, or throw it all away for some foolish pride, because I remember it was the right decision for a long time, it helped me to save myself, and I know it might turn into something good and I guess perseverance is the key to my success. However I will continue to think about if I made the best move every single time a little bit of doubt creeps into my head. I will persevere in spite of the fact that I don’t really know if this life I’ve created is for me, but one day I will know for sure.

That could be in a week, in a month, or later today, who the fuck knows?  All I really know is that much like Jimmy, I’m trying to find my identity in this place, and I think that at least for one night accepting the fact that I don’t know if I fit in, actually helps me feel more like myself, whomever that is.

Waking Up on a Monday

Today is one of those days when I couldn’t wait for the coffee maker to stop percolating so I could grab myself a cup.  It was one of those mornings when I wake up to social media posts I forgot to like before I fell asleep at 9pm the night before, and when I realize now that it’s just too much work to “turn on notifications” for everyone I follow on Instagram.  Might as well just disappear till the next update.

This is when I spend my time reflecting on the day ahead which sometimes means I have to go back and check my spelling, make an edit, or plan to make breakfast because it’s the most important meal of the day and to those of you who don’t eat it, trust me, you ARE missing out. There is no rhyme or reason to these Mondays, but if I can be honest, the last two have caused me to stress out like a rubber band that can not snap back into place.

The weekend just passed me by and it will be awhile before the next one comes.  I got to say that I know that this one will be different because I won’t spend it feeling misunderstood for one, and I won’t spend it wasting my time like I have before.  There is a style to my rhetoric that some people just get, and other people just don’t, but either way I don’t feel like I want to explain myself all that often anymore.

This is one of those blog posts that was over before it started, just like the 19 hours I endured from Saturday to Sunday that made me realize that sometimes you CAN’T go back, even though I wanted to with you.  This is one of those Monday mornings that starts slow, but by eight o’clock pacific time, after twenty minutes of pondering and thinking really hard about the things that make you tick, and after you finally get that third cup of coffee in yourself, and after you write some cryptic words that only you will understand, perhaps you make the decision that maybe just this one time you CAN go back, even if it’s been twelve years since the last time you woke up this way.

 

 

Fuck This Fucking Desk

Never in my life has assembling a piece of IKEA furniture been more frustrating than when I tried and failed at putting together this desk last week. It got so bad that at one point I was cursing and stabbing an inanimate object while screaming “Why are you being such a little bitch?” Furniture should never be this difficult to put together, which is why I eventually said “Fuck off” to this fucking desk. But before I got extremely aggravated throughout the whole process, for a few fleeting moments, I was actually looking forward to go furniture shopping.

A few weeks ago I visited my local IKEA and picked out a computer desk and matching drawer unit for the low low price of $149.99. Of course, since I drive a small two door sports car, neither the desk nor the drawer unit would fit into my vehicle.  That problem was easily fixed by simply ordering the two units online and then paying a small amount of $39 for delivery.  Not a wasted trip to Tukwila, Washington at all I reluctantly thought.

When the desk and drawer unit arrived a week later, I was ecstatic. I lugged both boxes up two flight of stairs to my apartment, went to work at the bar, and then was even more ecstatic when I was cut early from my shift at 7:30 that night that. I caught my bus home, picked up a bottle of chardonnay, and went to town putting together the future platform where I would sit and write blogs and stories for all of you to read.

The first mistake I made was consuming alcohol while trying to read those 20-30 page pamphlets that pass as instruction manuals, as if white wine was going to make me the whole process easier. First of all, they don’t write any actual words down on the pages. My guess is that way, they can use them as universal instructions and just put the same insert in every flat packed box of furniture. Even if I wasn’t drinking alcohol while putting this desk together, the instructions are so difficult to decipher, they might have well been written in hieroglyphics, which is pretty much what it looks like to me, regardless of my level of sobriety.

micke (dragged)3wtf  is with that severed hand?

 

At least I was able to assemble the drawers for underneath the desktop, so then I put those aside and started to work on the actual desk itself per the instructions. This is where things got a little bit….unnerving.

I had to put the desktop together upside down while sitting on the floor of my apartment.  I recently re-injured my MCL which if any of you are curious as to what that is, it’s the inside ligament that connects your knee to your shin bone which regulates movement and pivoting, two things that we should never take for granted. Needless to say, moving around with a torn MCL is extremely painful, especially when you are forced to sit on the ground and crawl around like a baby looking for one of the hundred pieces of hardware used to fasten part number 0112345 to part number 0112234. I wonder why IKEA comes up with funny and entertaining names for their furniture like the Poang chair, but then just gives up and assigns a barcode like number to every other piece of hardware to put that Poang chair together.

I was figuratively and literally not in my comfort zone at this point, though I was carefully “reading” the instructions and trying to make sure every calculated move was correct. After another fifteen to twenty minutes of dowel inserting and screw tightening, I could see the finish line in the distance. All I needed to do was attach the desktop to the bottom frame I just built, screw some more shit in, add in some more wooden dowels and it would pretty much be done, although to this day I still don’t understand how fat wood toothpicks hold ANYTHING that big together.

However, thanks to my shoddy knee and the uncomfortable position I was sitting in on the floor, when I went to pick up the bottom frame and attach it to the desk top, I somehow pivoted incorrectly which then made me scream in pain, which then caused the desk top to slip out of my hand and fall over backside onto the floor ripping out one of the important connector pieces, splintering the cheap wood, and creating a gaping hole where a gaping hole should not have been.

I screamed at “Fuck you” and other expletives at the desk, took another swig of my wine, but then was somehow able to jimmy rig the two pieces together for lack of a better term. It was at this point that I had to refer to the instruction manual to make sure I grabbed the correct four round “screw keys” or whatever the fuck they call them that I would then insert into the pre-drilled holes in the desk for everything to be held together tightly and securely. Of course, the instruction manual only slightly informs you that there are other screw keys that are smaller and look almost exactly like the ones you’re supposed use at this point in the installation, and even that attempt to inform me is slight indiscernible.

 

Screen Shot 2016-03-22 at 10.12.35 AM

Needless to say, I put the wrong size screw keys in the hole, and when I finally realized this, I was unable to get them out of the hole. I tried really hard too.  I used a needle nose pliers to attempt to remove them, but all I ended up doing was basically making the hole bigger than it needed to be, while little pieces of chipboard were being flung all over my living room carpet.  Then, I fucking lost it.

I stood up, and in my drunken state of mind, I proceeded to destroy what was left of the desk. I kicked down the screws that I so carefully placed in the correct pre-drilled holes, I stabbed the desktop with the pliers making gashes in places where there shouldn’t be gashes, and I grabbed every part of that fucking piece of shit desk, stuffed it back into it’s packing container, dragged it downstairs like a dead body, and threw it in the garbage.

Then I sat there on the curb, just a deskless, frustrated, sweaty mess smoking a cigarette in total disbelief of the fact that I just wasted eighty bucks plus tax and shipping on one piece of furniture I no longer wanted, or was in any shape to be used for it’s intended purpose.

I was also in shock and awe at how angry I got at an inanimate object that basically was forty pounds of chipboard and screws that I fucked up. I went to bed that night drunk and disheartened.  The next morning I  woke up a little hungover, but I had come up with a devilishly genius plan that I put into action.

I called the IKEA customer service number at 8am. After being on hold for nearly 25 minutes, I finally got through to a human being. I thought to myself two things:

1. I couldn’t tell the truth or return the item in it’s current state because I had completely annihilated the desk the night before, and
2. I still had the separate drawer unit I had to put together which was fully intact in it’s original shipping container.

So I took a page out of the storyline of one of the characters from Orange Is The New Black. I told the customer service representative that I never received the desk. Can we say mail fraud?

Lying to get what you want is never a good idea and I don’t condone that type of behavior. But in this case, after going through what I went through the night before and the insurmountable pain and suffering that I endured, I felt like I had payed the price of admission so to speak, and besides, I knew that I could get away with it. First of all, the two items were just left on the stairs outside of my apartment building by FedEx. I didn’t sign for them, and one could say that because of that fact I could claim I “never received” one of them. Who could prove me wrong?

“I got home from work, and I saw the smaller package with the drawer unit on the porch, so I took it up to my apartment and just assumed that the desk would be coming in a separate shipment.” I said to the customer service rep.

“I guess people just steal things off porches here in Seattle. I just moved here by the way.” I said to her in my most helpless tone
I pleaded my case with absolute aloofness to the fact that perhaps someone stole the desk off the porch of my apartment. I even joked with her that if I was going to steal something, I would have taken the smaller, less heavy parcel. Maybe I was lathering it on too thick, but at this point, all I really wanted to do was to get a new desk and continue with the arduous process of putting it together so that it would match the drawer unit that I still had yet to put together.

Thank God I was an actor in Hollywood for 12 years prior to this event because I believe that experience gave me the wit, charm, and improv skills to talk my way into IKEA sending me a brand new Micke desk in a new shipment without me having to put out any more money.

“I understand.” The rep told me  “These things happen. I’ll have a new desk sent out to you and send you an email when it ships.

I thanked the customer service rep repeatedly, added a little more icing to the proverbial fraudulent cake that I baked that morning, and I proudly hung up and went ahead and started to put together the drawer unit, until once again it started to all fall apart right before the last step. How on Earth could this be happening two times in a row?!?!  Why does IKEA furniture seem to hate me all of a sudden?

Luckily, I had not destroyed THIS piece of furniture like I destroyed the desk, so when I got frustrated again in the final minutes before it was a usable drawer unit, I finally said “Fuck this shit” and I decided to take it back to the store, cancel the new desk, and just ask for a refund for both the desk and the drawer unit. Unfortunately, when I got to the IKEA I didn’t have the original credit card I used to purchase these items on me, so I was stuck with two options.

1. I drive back to my apartment to get the card which was 25 minutes each way, OR
2. I cancel the order completely and have them put the refund amount on a gift card to be used at a later date.

I went with option two, being as that allowed me to put out the least amount of energy to get what I wanted. Sure, now I was stuck with still having to put together a desk from IKEA which could go horribly wrong again, but I’m sure they have some other items that might be easier to assemble without the need for a 35 step instruction manual.  I picked out the most basic and easy to assemble desk table they had, making sure I looked up the instruction manual online before I committed to buying this item.

A week later, here I am awaiting the arrival of my new desk table which hopefully will not get stolen off my porch this time, because that’s EXACTLY what happened the last time, right?  Hopefully, it will come together quickly and efficiently without causing my head and body so much self inflicted torture.

I learned two very valuable lesson from all of this. First, don’t try to put a desk together when you have been drinking a bottle of wine. Secondly, if at first you don’t succeed at putting together a piece of IKEA furniture while sober, don’t destroy it. Just give the fuck up and return it to the store. Politely explain how confusing and frustrated you got while trying to put it together and then go out and buy something that is pre-assembled. That way you won’t end up like me, a frustrated, human being with anger management issues that is currently lacking a desk in his life.

But if all else fails, and you know you happen to hate an item you received for whatever reason and you know you didn’t sign for it when it was delivered, consider the option of just playing dumb and say you never got it.  Lying to get what you want is wrong, but based on my experiences, it will probably work that ONE time when you really need it to work.

Am I Going to End Up Like Jeff?

At the end of one of my shifts last week, I passed on getting a drink after work because I had to catch my bus back home. So instead of sipping a Jameson and ginger, here I was sitting across from Jeff, a fifty five year old blue collar dishwasher who works at a hotel on 7th ave. We had been talking at the bus stop for a little bit before we boarded, and I guess at this point that conversation would have to continue for the short ride back to Aurora Village being as how I didn’t bring my iPod to listen to music, and sitting across from him staring at my phone at this point would seem rude and anti-social.

“I like you Christian.” He says “I appreciate your friendly nature.”

Normally I’m not that friendly at almost 2am on a Wednesday morning when I ride public transportation, but for some reason there was something about this guy’s plight in life that really struck a chord with me. Jeff was wearing a baseball cap, sported a push broom mustache, thick coke bottle glasses, and he spoke with a “Warsh-ington” accent that reminded me that I am NOT in Kansas anymore. In fact, I never was in the first place, but when Jeff tells me one of his children is now in his early thirties and lives in Montana, a state I have never been to, being on a bus sure feels like Kansas.

Jeff was unemployed for awhile but lately has been working his ass off, still in debt much like me and trying really hard to make a good life for himself, but I could tell that the recent events he had been through had been weighing on him.

“I was born in California near Orange County, fifteen years before your time.” He stated with a sense of accomplishment.

Jeff talked about being paid almost eighteen dollars an hour to wash dishes at a hotel, and he was proud of that fact, and immediately I was reminded of when I worked the same kind of job at a Friendly’s in New Jersey for $4.50 an hour in 1995. I was a little LESS proud of that fact, but that didn’t stop me from blurting it out. Jeff reminisced about his lady friend that left him four months ago, his car that needed a new alternator recently, and as I stared down at his bandaged and weathered hands, I thought about how I had cut my finger twice at work this week, put out five hundred dollars for my new tires and how I haven’t even HAD a lady friend for four years. Shit, we have a lot in common. Of course  the next thing that went through my mind was….am I going to end up like Jeff?

At this point I notice he pulls out a nail clipper from his jacket pocket and starts to groom the dry skin around his thumb and index finger. Two things come to mind….
1. I don’t know if public buses are the appropriate place to do that, Jeff.
2. Who the hell carries a nail clipper on them at all times?

None of that really matters at this point, but what does matter is the fact that here I am riding the bus about to start working two jobs, six days a week to try and cut my credit card debt in half by the end of the year. I think it’s a good plan to immerse myself in work and it wasn’t too long afterwards that Jeff told me he understood because he is in the same boat as me, although I’m floating in much deeper debt waters than he is.

“You have two jobs?” He exclaimed surprisingly “I wish I could get two jobs.” He then muttered to himself.

Yeah, I have two jobs because one of them is seasonal, and the other one could turn into something great down the line and for me to live this life that I’ve chosen, I need to rely on myself first, and not make excuses and whine anymore about how hard it is to live. Sure, sometimes it’s difficult but I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t feel just a little bit lucky at the fact that even though I’ve only been here for 45 days, I went on three job interviews and I got hired at two of them. I would have gotten the third job too, but both me and the owner of the comedy club knew I was overqualified for that gig from the start.

“You’ve only been here a month and you have two jobs?!”
“I have a good resume.” I replied.
“I wish I had two jobs.” Jeff repeated to himself.

I thought about that for a second and then it hit me. I’m actually doing pretty well in the grand scheme of things. I’m still in debt up to my neck from the last two years I spent in California, but four months ago when I came up with this grand idea to move out of L.A. for the sake of my well being, in my mind I had this plan that I was going to get an apartment and a second job tending bar if needed so I can keep myself busy and really fight for a chance at this life that I am so privileged to be living. I got to remember that.

I have to be honest, I was shocked at how quickly I was able to manifest everything I wanted. It’s like I decided to put the energy out in the world, and the universe felt it and gave me exactly what I said I desired. I should be happy about this, and I truly am, but then I started to wonder why the fuck wasn’t I this powerful the last few years I lived in Hollywood?

Why couldn’t I create a job to keep me in L.A., or a legitimate contract for the TV show Tasha and I killed ourselves to create, write, and produce, and why couldn’t we both manifest a shit ton of money that came with it? Why did I have to leave everything I had known for thirteen years to make a better quality of life for myself and why have things gone so smoothly during this transition?

Then I remembered to stop questioning why, and start appreciating the fact that I got what I wanted. It’s just that simple, but I can’t talk like that to Jeff on this bus ride back to North Seattle because when you start saying that we all have the power to create your own reality, people think it’s bullshit and most likely will call you crazy, but that’s ok because you can bet I’ve been called worse.

Jeff and I talk for a few more minutes before the bus drops me off at 95th and Aurora. I shake his hand and he tells me he’ll stop in to my bar for a beer on Friday when he is done his 8 hour shift at the Marriott, and I hope he does cause I would like nothing more than to buy him that beer because even though I barely even know this guy, it’s clear to me from his humbleness and his demeanor that he has earned a whole free case of beer.

Am I going to end up like Jeff? Probably not. We don’t have the same outlook in life and I would assume when I’m 55 I will look like I just turned 42. I’m not going to start washing dishes cause I’m a little too fancy for that type of work, and if all goes well I’ll be writing my memoirs and getting paid for that shit. I’m not going to drive a Volvo that needs repairs, and I don’t think I’m going to meet my next girlfriend while I am having coffee at a McDonald’s, not to mention that I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a baseball cap and thick glasses when I’m fifty five unless someone paid me to do so, or I was trying to hide from the public. The latter seems more likely than then former.

Honestly, I don’t wear hats and I only need glasses at night when I drive, but aside from all the different physical characteristics between Jeff and I, I think the point here is that me and this stranger currently have a lot in common at this moment in time. I can empathize and relate to him, even though at first glance I wouldn’t have even thought we had ANYTHING in common other than we are both on this fucking bus back home. For some reason, life put this guy in my path and maybe I needed to meet him that night to remind myself of lucky I am.

In fifteen years, I’m not going to be riding a bus at 2 in the morning from downtown Seattle after I have just finished my shift at a hotel. I don’t believe that I am going to meet some young kid that is 40 but looks 28 and I won’t be slightly envious of him because he works two jobs. Yet, the one thing I can take away from the last half hour is that Jeff is a good person, and someone who works hard. Jeff may have picked an inopportune time to decide to trim his cuticles, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that I can tell, regardless of what I see on the outside, that Jeff is an inherently decent human being.  I’m so glad I didn’t go for that drink after work because I guess it wouldn’t be the worst thing if I ended up like Jeff.

I Took the Bus to Work & Nothing Bad Happened to Me

I have always loathed the idea of riding the bus. It’s probably due to my white middle class upbringing in South Jersey where getting a car at age 17 was a birthright, and taking the school bus was always more stressful than it needed to be.

As much as I love my car, I don’t love the idea of spending up to $25 a day to have it sit in a parking lot for 5-6 hours. What a fucking waste of money. I’ve already spent more in the past month on deposits, registration, and moving expenses, so perhaps it was time I faced my fear of public transportation, if only to put a little more green in my pocket.

I started my new job yesterday in downtown Seattle. I won’t say where I work because of the social media policy I had to sign stating that any form of blog or post I make on any website may only include the name of my workplace if I followed it with the sentence “The views expressed in this blog do not necessarily represent that of (insert bar name here.)

Regardless, after I took a look at the parking situation downtown, I figured out it would cost me about $100 a week to park my car if I work four shifts. Unless I’m making a thousand dollars a day, the cost of parking my car in the city flat out sucks. After a few intuitive questions to my HR rep about where to park, she informed me my company will reimburse up to $45 a month for bus fare.  After hearing that,  I’d be an idiot NOT to take advantage of the public transit system.  I had no choice but to put my past fears and nightmares aside, and let someone else do the driving.

The first time I took a bus was when I was in summer camp in the 80s, and I threw up into my baseball hat on the way home because I got nauseated from sitting in the seat over the back wheels.  Eight years went by before I got on a six wheeled vehicle again.

The next time I took a bus was 7th grade. It was my first day of school, and not being keen to the schedule, I missed my bus and had to have my Mom drive me in, but not before I got the bright idea to cut across a dew dampened field of leg high grass to try and catch the bus at another stop.

It was no surprise I also missed THAT bus along with soaking my jeans all the way up to my knees from running through someone’s backyard. However, I spent the next few years taking the bus to school with my Walkman on at all times, trying my hardest to sit in the back or the front as not to get all pukey again from sitting over the wheel.  By the time I was 15, someone was picking me up and driving me to school everyday and I wouldn’t have to take any bus anywhere until sometime in the year 2007 in L.A. when taking the bus was forced upon me.

That’s when I found myself trapped at a shady motel at six in the morning somewhere south of La Brea and Venice boulevard, while my car was parked at a Carl’s Jr. restaurant in Hollywood three miles away. I had just been ripped off for sixty bucks by some wise ass kid, I had no money in my bank account, and I had to bum a dollar from some prostitute just to get on any form of public transportation to take me back home. I’m leaving out a lot from that story, but trust me, I’ve included the basic facts and that’s all you need to know.

I know this may seem like I’m spoiled, but I always thought of taking the bus as the lowest form of transportation. In my mind, the hierarchy of getting from point A to point B goes like this:
1. Driving myself in my own car
2. Riding in someone else’s car
3. Taking a cab/uber, which could also be #2 if I didn’t pay for it.
4. Taking the subway
5. Walking
and finally, all the way down there at number 6: Taking the bus

I knew in the back of my mind I was turned off by the whole idea since I was a kid. I guess I was traumatized by my past experiences coupled with the fear that something bad was going to happen as most bus rides are portrayed negatively on TV and in the movies. Maybe I could chalk that up to the fact that I was raised Catholic and taught to fear everything in life, but being a pragmatic adult now means sometimes I have to break myself of what I always have done to make room for something that is more sensible.

It’s not practical to spend almost two hours of my hard earned hourly wages on a holding spot for a hunk of metal and rubber in some parking lot, when taking the bus cost me a fraction of that amount, not to mention the fact that I have a $45 buffer I will get back. So, I did the inevitable, I manned up, stopped being a pussy, and I took the bus to work yesterday.

I walked two blocks to Aurora and 95th to catch the RapidRide to downtown. I pressed my ORCA card to the screen at the bus stop, and it made a happy sounding noise.  When the bus came I got on.  I thought I was going to get lost, or harassed, or mugged, but as it turns out, no one cares because everyone is looking at their phone anyway.

Truth be told, it was quite a laid back process. I even enjoyed the fact that I didn’t have to look for a parking spot, or slam on my breaks because some idiot cut me off, usually that idiot by the way is a bus driver. It was an all together painless process, and in fact, I didn’t even drive my car yesterday, and I’m totally ok with that.

I think I might have been too hard on public transportation my whole life, and I apologize to it. I know I may have looked down upon the idea of getting around using the metro system, and I’m sorry for judging any person who has been taking the bus their whole life. It’s not like I thought I was better than you, I just have had  a few bad experiences and have owned a car since I was 17.   I’ve  been driving myself everywhere since then. I guess you could say old habits die hard.

So for what it’s worth, I can now look at riding the bus as a practical means of getting from point A to point B, and not so much as a symbol of my status in this world. After all, I didn’t get sick, I wasn’t late, and I didn’t get attacked by some weirdo at the bus stop. (yet)

I still love my car, but I think I love the idea of having money in my pocket and reducing my stress level enough to allow someone else to do the driving from here on out. I guess I had to face my fears head on, and I’m proud to say I took the bus to work yesterday, and nothing bad happened.