On Commuting And Complaining

 

This week I commuted into the office after about two years. Before COVID, I was already working from home three days a week, into the office for two. Around November of 2021, I returned to the office briefly a few times before reverting to solely work-from-home.

But this past Wednesday – a commute back to the cubicle farm. And what a shock to my system it was. The drive to the train station in the still dark early morning, the crowded commuter train, the even more crowded subway platform and subway car. Commuters’ habits haven’t changed much: everyone eyes down on their phone, people blocking the doors on subways, backpacks bumping into you and all, without exception, looking as if they would rather be anywhere other than where they were.

I took a walk at lunchtime and was surprised at the changes in the area – a new IKEA store, cranes, buildings demolished, restaurants closed, others opened, the smell of cannabis wafting everywhere.

At the end of the day, I walked (lugging laptop) to Union station (about a thirty-minute walk) but the day had turned unseasonably warm, and I was hot and sweaty amidst the lemming-like crowds marching down Bay Street. 

I trudged through the new concourse at Union station, filled with shiny, bright stores and hordes of people, but platforms to the trains were only accessible from the other end of the station. I rushed through the hallways, sweating even more now, hoping to catch the express train home. I hurried up the stairs, only to have the train doors close in my face as I approached. Down the stairs I went to check the board for the next train – an all-stops leaving in three minutes!! – and rushed up another flight of stairs to another platform. Hurtling myself on board, I sank down into a seat, heart hammering, body glistening with sweat. I picked up take-out on the way home, then spent the evening decompressing in front of the television.

How on earth did I do that commute before? At one time, five days a week, including dropping off a toddler at daycare, then picking her up, then an evening of chores and mothering, and up the next day to do it all over again. Incomprehensible. But I was younger then. And you did what you had to do.

I know there are people who would envy these daily travails, and would welcome the predictability of a routine, the comfort of knowing you have a job and a safe home to return to, and if you miss one train, another will come along, and you will get on it and return to a safe cocoon where food and water is plentiful, and bombs are not falling.

I have no reason to lament a day lost to commuting and crowds and inconvenience. Because that’s really all it was. I like a city vibe, but not in the context of a work-day and especially not when carrying a heavy laptop.

But the day highlighted for me again what so many others go through on a daily basis. It’s easy to say count your blessings and be grateful. And sometimes we express gratitude because we feel that’s what we must do, given how messed up the world is. And we feel guilty when complaining about our small corner of the world.

But we cannot right the wrongs of the world, and we cannot deny that, despite knowing the horror and chaos, we still get out of sorts if things don’t go our way.  We can mourn the tragic losses and also feel sorry for ourselves over teeny nuisances. And sometimes all we want to do is retreat into our bubble and forget the rest of the world exists.

Until we’re ready to step outside once again.

In the morning I prefer looking at the city
 from afar rather than commuting to it