Morning Commute

As the house is emptied of husband and kids, I begin my morning commute towards my Cloffice. Being my own boss is dangerous territory for a Type-A pessimist.  This daily trek could be littered with landmines, traffic jams, and the occasional breakdown.  It’s always a surprise.

This particular morning, my commute is interrupted as my fingertips trace the muddy paw prints painted on the window. The smudges bear a slight resemblance to my children’s abstract finger-paintings from their kindergarten days. I’m a sucker for masterpieces of love and chubby fingers paws.  I open the door and give the dogs some love and a treat.

After my detour, I notice breakfast dishes are piled in the sink. It seems no one knows that we have a dishwasher, except me. I keep walking.

My sock covered feet carry me towards the laundry room, where a lonely pile of clothes sit. I straighten the pile, as I have for the past 4 days, and continue on.

Heading north, I climb the carpeted stairs, stepping around library books (not mine) and folded towels (again, not mine), noting that I need to scrub the handprints from the walls. Lights are ablaze as I reach the top. I walk from room to room, clicking off each switch, ignoring the messiness only a child could appreciate (or live in).

The last room I enter, is mine. It’s the cleanest in the house, except for the desk. And it’s my mess, so it’s okay. There is no odor of stinky feet. Or clutter from art projects gone crazy. The carpet is void of Barbie shoes and Nerf bullets. I switch on the light, my mind instantly relaxing.

I have arrived at my destination.

Commutes are rarely a straight line.  I continue to steer clear of distractions, adjusting my route when needed, and setting my sights on the destination ahead.