baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Brat The bitterness of the cold was surprising when I stepped outside the warmth of the lobby tonight. The recent change in time usually allows me to enjoy the sunset on my commute home-but the clouds grew thick and gray over the afternoon and covered up the beautiful shades of gold and orange that typically fill the evening Southern California sky. I pulled my oversized jacket-the one that I bought at a steep discount when I worked years ago for a clothing company- around tight and walked to my truck-simultaneously cursing the chill as well as my own wimpiness. In other parts of the world (As Dr. Larch would often say), snow is falling many inches deep. The gray of the concrete would be invisible under my shoes as I make my way to my truck-which would perhaps be concealed under a mound of snow. Maybe, I would need to put chains around my tires-or drive the entire hour commute home with my front wheels locked. Or maybe, I wouldn't even get to go home; the radio announcer would apologetically announce from the warmth of his or her studio that, tonight, snow wouldn't allow me to step through my own front door. But, here in my world, the chill I curse is easily defeated with the pull of a coat and the flick of a switch. By the time I'm on the 405, the heat of the engine has warmed up the cab sufficiently and I'm surrounded by relative comfort all the way home-the radio filling my ears with my favorite music, the engine whisking me along at 70 miles per hour past purple lupine, yellow mustard and blurred lights. During the drive, my mind wanders over the day's events and uncover nothing too uncommon-nothing too uncomfortable. I look forward to a night home alone safe in the confines of my mortgage, and wonder if I should stop somewhere to get dinner; some prepackaged, precooked delicacy custom made for the spoiled brats (me) who think it too bothersome to have to wait in a four-minute line for food-voicing our protests with the honk of a horn and rude words to the teen behind the counter. My tiny comfort zone makes me uncomfortable indeed. It's confines don't allow much flex and movement. Too far to any side, and I begin to wither like an exotic plant that never has the right amount of sunlight and water. I live in a rich world. Too rich perhaps for someone like me who is too steeped in his own complaints to enjoy. 10:14 p.m. - 2001-04-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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