The double perfect commute

Warning: 99% of readers will find this entry really, really boring, but I posted it anyway, because I am too proud not to.

When I get to work every morning, the first thing I do is email Shawn to let her know how the drop off went at daycare. Today was no different. I let her know that the drop off went well and that Reilly was happily playing with her friends by the time I left. Shawn replied with an email that said, “I think we left the iron on.”

Now, you have to understand that we have a history with the whole leaving the iron on psychosis. Shawn and I have a little OCD relationship going on with the iron, and we’ve put in place two steps to make sure that neither of us has that “oh shit” moment while riding the subway train to work.

Step 1: Brian checks to make sure the iron is off before going to work.
Step 2: Shawn checks to make sure the iron is off before going to work.

Until today, this process worked brilliantly, since even if one of us forgot to check, the other served as backup. But this morning we were running late, and were rushing out the door, so when Shawn emailed me to see if I remembered to check the iron, I felt that sudden sinking feeling. I hadn’t.

Of course, there was only one thing to do. I walked into my boss’ office, told him that I thought I left the iron on in my apartment, and depending on the commute, I’d be back in forty minutes to an hour. He laughed. How could he not? We were only working on one of only three serious deadlines we have all year.

I caught the elevator down, hit the pavement at a good clip, and crossed Water Street on the walk sign. I crossed Broad Street at Pearl Street on a flashing don’t walk sign, then shot over to Whitehall street via Bridge Street. I jaywalked at Whitehall right in front of a police van, grabbed a free newspaper, and then ran down the steps at the Bowling Green subway station. As I hit the floor I felt a strong wind in my face which could only mean that a train was coming into the station, so I broke into a sprint, swiped my card at the turnstile, then hopped on 4 Express going uptown. I took a moment to read the paper and cool off. A few stops later, the doors bing-bonged open and I negotiated the winding hallways of the 14th Street Station. I surfaced at the southwest corner and crossed Union Square West at 15th Street on a walk sign, which I stayed on to cross 5th Avenue on another walk sign. By then I knew that it was possible to have my first perfect commute in over a year, with one street left to cross. I waved at my coffee cart guy at the corner of 5th and 16th and then crossed onto 16th Street with a walk signal and a big grin on my face.

The grin quickly evaporated as my mission returned to my mind. I walked at maximum speed down the block to my apartment, turned the key, kicked open the door, jogged up one flight of stairs, which caused me to huff and puff up the next two, turned the key and shoved open our front door, rounded the corner and HEY! the iron was unplugged.

I grabbed a water from the fridge and reversed my path, catching a walk sign at 16th Street and crossing against the don’t walk at Union Square West in front of a turning cabbie. I don’t normally cross in front of a cabbie, but a perfect double commute was on the line, and since there was no baby strapped to my chest, I could take a few chances. The hardest part of the perfect commute was next, catching the notoriously fickle express train back downtown. As I meandered through the hallway of Union Square Station, I saw that my train was pulling into the station. So, I sprinted down the hallway, dodging support columns and slow movers, shot down the stairway and hopped through the door. Bing-bong! Oh yeah. I didn’t have a paper to read on the way back down, so I thought through which route to take. As the train pulled into my station, I disembarked, mounted the stairs, and chose to take the route along Battery Park, which would mean I only had two lights to make. The first one was no problem—crossed Whitehall Street on a never-ending walk sign. Broad Street was blinking as I crossed Whitehall, which meant that it would be a full-on walk sign by the time I made Broad, and sure enough, it was. I ran up the steps to my building, swiped through security, and an elevator door opened up before me. Forty minutes round trip.

The DOUBLE PERFECT COMMUTE. Ain’t life grand?