I leave for work early and I arrive at work early, like I always do, but earlier than usual. I'm uncertain as to how this happens since I am driving behind two giant maintenance trucks of some kind as they play tag team on the two lanes of my work route, blocking anyone from going faster than twenty miles per hour.
Of course, this is after I am stuck behind a dump truck going about 35 mph in a 50 mph speed zone. But it's not entirely the dump truck's fault as we are all stuck behind someone in an SUV going 35 mph in the same speed zone before it turns off to another road. The dump truck is just trying to keep up with the pace car.
But, see, I wouldn't be stuck behind the dump truck if I do not allow the New Hampshire driver to cut in front of me at the light. I figure he's on his way to work, so, rather than have him ride up my ass, I let him go ahead of me. After all, he revs his tinny little engine as if he's got a firecracker shoved up his Monday morning ass just waiting for the fuse to ignite.
I'm wrong, though. He is trying to find a space to pull over to go to Dunks for a coffee. Of course, he starts looking for the space a quarter of a mile away then crawls, crawls, craaaaaaaaaaaaawls out of the road. It takes him a full thirty seconds to edge into a space that has no one behind nor in front of it.
Still, however, it's not the New Hampshire driver's fault, either, because I stop at the post office to mail some bills. Worried that I might be cutting the due dates of the bills a little close, I get out of my car, enter the twenty-four-hour lobby, and put the mail right into the "sort it immediately" slot. I see the big box truck full of mail pulling out of the other exit, but I figure I'll let the truck go ahead of me. I mean, how slow can he really be? He has important mail!
Slow. That's the answer. Slower than slow. Sloooooooooooooooooooooooow.
Okay, so it's partially my fault for deciding that mailing the mail in the post office is actually a wise idea (it truly is), but even then, getting to the post office is quite a feat. Leaving my driveway, I have to get out of the street before the short bus blocks me in. The bus driver knows the kid he's picking up is going to be late. She's late every morning, so the driver sits there and sits there and sits there with the flashers going, not letting anyone by.
As soon as my car is dead center on the tracks, the bells and whistles and lights all start flashing and clanging. I glance to the left then to the right, as is my customary reaction when crossing the tracks, and see the bright light of the commuter train barreling into the station about three hundred yards away while I am shitting a total brick on the tracks, smacking the gas pedal and hoping no one else is running the five-way intersection because I sure as hell am.
That's it. From now on, I leave my house on time or maybe a little later. This leaving early shit is enough to drive me to start drinking before I even finish my commute.
