I did have to deal with an actual "working" commute. And that was not pleasant. Very not pleasant. You could even say it was unpleasant. Very unpleasant.
Since Delma was out of town for the week, I decided to take her tiny, trusty 2003 Toyota Matrix to get there. Otherwise I'd have to spend forty-five minutes on the el and then forty-five minutes on the Metra train. Here's a quick recap:
Monday - Left for work at 6:40. The approximately twenty-mile drive took nearly an hour and a half. Left for home at 5:07. The approximately twenty-mile drive back took two hours and five minutes.
Tuesday - Left for work at 6:23. I figured the earlier I leave, the less traffic I encounter. It took me an hour to get to work. Left for home at 5:04. Arrived at 6:34. An hour and a half. Better than two hours, I guess.
Wednesday - Left for work at 6:05. Arrived at 6:58. Still nearly an hour to go twenty miles. Left for home at 3:45. Got home at 5:17. More than an hour and a half.
Thursday - Left for work at 5:50. Yes, 5:50AM. I woke up that morning at 4:30. In the morning. FORTY minutes to go twenty miles. Better, but still. What the flaming fuck, Chicago traffic? Left for home at 3:15. Made it at 5PM. An hour and forty-five minutes.
Friday - Said "screw it" and decided to take the Metra. I biked to Ogilvy Transportation Center (an easy, 35-minute bike ride) and sat peacefully as the Metra took me to work in forty minutes. I should have done this from the beginning, I thought.
The ride back? Got out of work at 4:10. Didn't get home till 7:30.
The ride back on Friday was fun. Just kidding. I'm being facetious. I got out at 4:10 and had to haul ass to the Metra station because the train left at 4:13. Thankfully, I made it to the station in time, but for some reason, the train was coming from the opposite side it usually did. It stopped at the platform and I mused things over for a second.
The train was on the wrong side, but it was facing the right direction. It was definitely going to Chicago. There was another train coming on the right side (the side I was on), but going in the wrong direction. I made the (rash, impulsive, stupid) decision to cross the tracks.
The oncoming train was still a ways away. Still, you're not supposed to cross the tracks when a train is coming. Safety reasons, you know? But the next train wasn't coming for another hour and I was hungry and tired and I just wanted to get the hell out of that town and go home. I darted across the tracks, the oncoming train blared its incredibly loud horn and I tried to hop on board.
The conductor saw me, held up his hand and said "Whoa, did you just cross the tracks when a train was approaching?"
Out of breath, I nodded and said "Yeah, sorry, it's just that the train usually comes from the other-"
"You could have gotten killed." he said, cutting me off.
"I know, but I don't normally take the tra-"
"I don't care. You're not boarding this train." he said, interrupting me again.
My stomach dropped. I didn't want to wait another hour.
"But I don't usually-"
"You can wait for the next one," he said as he jumped on the train and slammed the door shut.
As the train departed, I stood there, mouth agape, wondering what the hell just happened. I've been thinking about it since last evening. It's been nagging at me, slowly chewing on my brain.
It's not a big deal. It isn't. It's just another hour to wait (although it ended up being more because the 5:13 turned into the 5:27 and then for some reason it went slower than normal so I didn't get into the city until well past 6PM). And he was right. I could have gotten myself killed. Maybe he was letting me off lightly. Or maybe he was just being a dick and going on a power trip. Whatever. That's not the point.
What's bothering me is how I handled the situation. That's how you're supposed to handle, it right? "Yes, sir," nod your head and just accept it. But I wish I could have explained my situation or gotten him to understand or at least told him to go fuck himself. Something, you know?
I'm a passive person. Very passive. I don't like being confrontational. And it's a problem. I go out of my way to avoid conflict even if the other party is at fault. I've mentioned before how I wish I was more assertive, but I hadn't really realized just how passive I was until yesterday. I'm not passive-aggressive. I'm passive-passive, like a submissive puppy peeing and then rolling over, trying to please the bigger dog.
Honestly, I didn't even try to argue or change his mind. I just stood there and let it happen. And maybe he was in the right, so I'll give you another example of my passiveness.
In 9th grade, I went to Las Vegas with my family. I couldn't really gamble, being fourteen and all, so after I got bored with the arcade at Circus Circus, my cousin and I decided to walk around. We went into a store, didn't see anything of interest, and then walked out. At that point, a cop came up to us and told us to empty our pockets.
"Why?" my cousin asked, as I began to reach into my pockets.
"I just saw you go into the store and you walked out without buying anything," he said with a smirk.
"But that doesn't mea-"
"Just empty your pockets." I whispered to my cousin. As they say in movies, I didn't want any trouble.
He shook his head and sighed. We showed that we had nothing in our pockets.
"Good boys." the cop said and walked away.
Later that evening, we were waiting for our parents to finish gambling so we could go to dinner. We sat down on the floor with our backs against the wall. The same cop strolled by again.
"Sit on the benches." he instructed us.
"What? Why?" my cousin asked.
"The benches are for sitting. Not the floor."
Immediately I got up and plopped my overweight adolescent butt on the bench.
"You can't make us do that. We're not breaking any rules." my cousin told him.
"Sit on the bench unless you want to get into trouble, kid."
My cousin shook his head again and looked at me for backup.
I sat on the bench and looked straight ahead, avoiding eye contact.
The cop was obviously being a dick. For no real reason. And yet rather than stand up to him, I took it like the little bitch I am. Like I said, I'm very passive. If we're being brutally honest here, we could just say that I'm a huge pussy.
That's what's bothering me about all of this. I have no spine, no backbone, no cojones. And I wish I did. Maybe the train conductor was right. But I wish I had at least managed to say "That's fucked up." And I wish I could have told the cop no, like my cousin.
I'm not very good at dealing with the authorities.
This is long, I know. I'm just rambling and venting, at this point. It feels like I'm in high school writing in my LiveJournal. "Dear diary, my life SUCKS." And, honestly, my life doesn't suck. My life is pretty good, at the moment.
I just don't want to be passive-passive anymore. I also don't want to be aggressive-aggressive either, but I don't have to be. I just have to stand up for myself.
Maybe I'll join a fight club or something to toughen up. I don't want to be a peeing puppy. I want to be Captain America. Or Batman. Or at least Mighty Mouse.
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