Quite the commute.

I woke this morning at a time I’m never normally awake – much too early for rising, and only rarely hit from the other side if I’m still up on the occasional all-nighter. Waited in the predawn darkness for my taxi. When I’m sleepy, I have an irrational worry about making the morning taxi wait. Gotta be totally ready before he gets there! I zoned out on the way to the airport, watching the glow from car headlamps and streetlights moving through the mist, and listening to the nonstop one-sided patter from the taxi dispatcher flowing seamlessly between French and English. That particular cocoon of time and space was calm and comfortable, still so near sleeping, and I found myself wondering if I could convince the driver to take me all the way back to Toronto. Instead, I was ejected into the sterile whiteness of the airport. It took my dozy brain three tries, and some encouraging words from the nice airport lady, to work the electronic check-in machine.
In what is apparently a new trend for me, I didn’t set off the metal detector. Usually, I set them off no matter what. I don’t know if for a while they were set to a higher sensitivity, but whatever combination of rings, studs and zippers on jeans, or underwire in my bra I did or did not have on, I always, always made it beep. I am used to getting swept over by the guy with the detector rod with a practiced nonchalance that I was quite proud of. In any other interaction with the Powers That Be, I’ve always got that guilty feeling – like surely they’re going to accuse me of something, because obviously I am a bad person. Not so with detector-rod guy. They’re gonna have to swipe me all over with it because I set off the walk-through detector, but they’re not gonna find anything. Bring on the swiper!
I scored a seat on a slightly earlier flight, so wasted no time hanging around the gates. Went through the usual hustle and bustle of boarding, but with the exciting challenge of holding an extra-large Styrofoam cup of horrendous coffee. I figured if I can handle it on the TTC… Took my seat and looked around at a plane-full of men. If that plane had gone down on a deserted island, the lady four rows up from me, the First Officer (awesome), the lone stewardess, and I would have been fuuuuuucked. Spent most of the flight in that heavy sleep that overtakes you and gives you no choice but to succumb. Even if you’re still holding a huge cup of horrendous coffee. TTC bus, once again, thanks for the free training.
I think I may have been the only person on the flight with checked luggage—all those men seemed to just have briefcases—since my bag was already lazily circling the baggage claim when I got there.
Guess what? The 401 totally sucks in the morning! But we cruised to the dulcet tones of the GPS navigator as she repeatedly told the driver to stay left, or stay right. Called the hubby to let him know I’d arrived safely and was not currently the desert-island sex slave of 136 businessmen and one pilot.
Pulled up to my office building at the same time as our CEO. Felt awesome that I was in the chauffeur-driven vehicle. And allowed to wear jeans to the office.
I’ve felt bizarrely disconnected all day; from the eating of my imported-from-Montreal croissant that got smushed because the security guy casually chucked my bag upside down to put it in the X-ray machine, to now, when my early morning is catching up to me in a big way and insisting that I mainline some caffeine--something not too horrendous. As though maybe I’m still asleep in the back of that first taxi, and he’s driven out into the Quebec countryside, and when I wake I’ll be surrounded by pine trees and birdsong and cool, damp air.
I really just want to go home, have a bath, and go to bed.