Almost Grown Up

So in the vast craziness that is getting ready to take a few days off and visit the fam, I was stressed.

It means getting ahead on my work, so that nothing implodes while I’m gone.

It means talking to clients so that they know I still love them and will be dealing with their problems upon my return.

It means finishing the extra project that I stupidly picked up early because I won’t be in the office the day it is due.

It means doing laundry, packing a suitcase, packing a car with things to take home, and getting enough caffeinated beverages to keep me from falling asleep while driving home.

Glorious.

So I got home at nearly 8pm, after a 13 hour day and started working. I looked at the clock twice and was sad that I didn’t have any time to run. So I packed, and I shuffled things around, and then it hit me:

“I really need a run.”

So off I went, and the second my feet hit the pavement I felt better. The sun was down, the heat was drifting away, the air was getting all sweet (this “sweet evening air” I speak so much about is apparently due to night blooming jasmine, I am told, at least I’m not about to have a seizure). And I felt better. I came home, ate the leftover food from my roommate’s date (He’s cooking for her now! Quite the big step!) and settled in for a night of packing.

My neighbor swung by shortly thereafter so she could get my help with a moving project of her own, and said to me “Everytime I see you you’re doing something, you have such a wild, interesting life.” And you know what? My life is great. Even when the job is tedious, I love it. I love my job and my coworkers and doing what I do every day. I love the social aspects of my life here, be it beer with the guys or soccer with the team from work. Even on the long days, the 13 hour days that have me dragging ass back home and looking longfully at my bed, I love what I do.

So, the other good part about my impending return to New England, is that I can watch the Red Sox play (haven’t worked out how to do this in Virginia yet). So in honor of my getting to watch the Sox, I’m reposting a poem written in the Sporting News on September 21, 1911, two weeks before the last game of Cy Young’s career:

HE’LL BE PITCHING STILL
On the morning of the Judgment, when friend Gabriel calls the game,
He’ll be somewhat disappointed when he cries one famous name;
For in all those countless legions who will answer to the roll,
There will be one fellow missing and may peace be on his soul.
There will be one man too busy to come in and learn his fate;
He’ll be working while the others try to horn in past the gate;
For when Gabriel toots his trumpet and we all rise from the hay,
Old Cy Young will not be present – he’ll be pitching ball that day.

(Yeah, I have issues with the baseball craziness, at least I’m not one of those murderous yankees fans).