I work at 6 tonight, which means I should be ready to leave at 5:20.  Which means I'll be racing out my house at 5:27, swearing under my breath as I hear what sounds like the elevator stopping at every floor before mine and even passing it.  Returning to me in what will seem to be 20 minutes later only for me to finally reach ground floor, or as we say in Quebec, rez de chaussee, to have to repeat the ordeal as I've probably forgotten either my metro pass, phone, float or shirt (uniform, as I of course didn't leave naked).  The thoughts as I run through the Palais de Congres to reach my metro, with heels smacking resounding clickities, the way heels do in large echo-y halls, drawing the looks of, well-everyone, will be: Why the hell do I not plan to leave earlier?   The answer I'll replay in my head is: This job is not worth a 45 minute commute.  

I HATE COMMUTING.  I have a deep-seated issue with the idea that I have to take from my precious time the journey it takes to get somewhere I don't want to be.  I chose jobs specifically for how close they were to my home.  Hell, I was self-employed, working from my house to eliminate that whole concept.  Well, when I decided to make Montreal my start-over place, I just took the first job I applied to.  This job at first was nothing to me, a starting point to build from, to distract from, to give me some sense of productivity in my broken mess that I was.

October passed with mixed emotions marking a year spent as a Montrealais, as well as a year spent with Benedicts (my job).  Other than Terri's Grill, the restaurant I started working at when I was 15 in Veteran, 9 months is the longest time I'd invest into anything not of my own.  Benedict's however,became an anchor and community.  I tried hard to resist that.  I tried hard to not make relationships, to not care, to not respect the people which make up it's world.  I could make easily double the wage in tips working a few steps from me, in the Old Port.  Hell, I could work in the restaurant below my building, the only commute being the obnoxious elevator ride down-I would never have to go outside.  Knowing this, I lie to myself about my French not being good enough, or I tell myself I'll just make it through another season, or start school first, or, or, or...The actuality is, they are family.  They are my friends, they are my village of Veteran which knew me and loved me and watched me grow up and helped me and hurt me even, but were always there for me.  I'll keep insisting that leaving at 5:20 is sufficient time to get there, I'll keep running foolishly to my metro to still arrive late with a mouthful of sorries and excuses that the metro broke down, as no job is worth a 45 min commute.