twenty-something

It's now my eighth day of gainful employment. After only working two weeks since early June, it's been a bit of a transition. Getting up in the morning. Wearing khakis and button downs (and dress shoes, no Crocs or sneakers). Putting in 40+ hours. Falling asleep before seeing a single minute of Studio 60 (and me without a DVR). It's all taking some getting used to.

Now that I'm in my second week, I'm getting the hang of it again. I'm starting to feel like a real human, contributing to society. My social life is beginning to take shape, little by little, as I find myself with some energy at the end of the day to do something besides sleep. And, hey, I'm getting a paycheck on Friday!

But the best part so far is that I'm developing a routine. I haven't had a routine in many months. And I'm kind of loving mine.

Every morning I take the eight minute walk to the Savin Hill T. I usually have just missed an Alewife-bound train, and by mere moments. I then swear to myself and I wait for the next one. But the delay allows me to scope out the platform and find a handsome stranger to stand near. This is usually a hot straight boy in a Sox hat, or a well-put-together young professional who's bubble butt looks so good in his tight dress pants. But inevitably, there is some young man who I am drawn to, some smokin' Boston boy, and I will follow him onto the train and steal glances as we face further delays together on the Red Line towards Cambridge and I listen to Mat Kearney or Snow Patrol on my iPod.

Every day, two stops from mine, as I gaze at my new love, as I listen to melancholy music probably featured on Grey's Anatomy, the robot train announcer interrupts with the most ridiculous statement I have ever heard.

"Entering Andrew," he says.

And I giggle. Andrew is a T Stop. Andrew Square, I think. But the stop is simply called "Andrew" and that automated conductor simply says, "Entering Andrew." Ridiculous, to me, considering that Andrew is my favorite name in the world. It's the name of my high school "sweetheart" of sorts, and the name of this dude I dated and liked and messed things up with last fall. And while I've technically never entered an Andrew before, there have been many times when I have wanted to... and there are parts of me that hope that, maybe someday, I will. For now, I just smile on my daily commute and think, "how fucked up is that?"

The rest of the train ride usually will pass with nothing of note. We peak above ground for a moment and cross the Charles, and it's always, predictably, gorgeous. And then, before we descend back underground, I always think, "I live in Boston." This, in my own way, is a prayer of thanks.

Kendall comes -- if my handsome stranger is still there, or if I've found another to pine after, I give one last longing glance -- and I get off. I take the long way along the river, admiring the amazing view of the city from Cambridge on my ten minute walk to the office. Upon arrival, I usually get some coffee (as much as I've tried to resist, I think that I, like America, run on Dunkin) and hit the ground running.

Then I do the same thing, in reverse, sans coffee, on an Ashmont-bound train, about eight to ten hours later.

Sometimes the commute takes a half hour. Sometimes over an hour. But every day I fall in love with a handsome stranger. Every day I enter Andrew. And every day I'm a little more thankful for my brand new life.

I dig it. I *ahem* big dig it. (When in Rome...)