The Penalty Box

How do you measure, a year…and we’ll stop there.

So…a full year officially of me in the workforce.  It’s strange how when you’re in school, some semesters seem to drag on forever.  Long, arduous, and, depending on the professor in some cases, torturous.  Projects and homework and exams didn’t seem to end, they just kept coming.  Days were long, nights were longer; sometimes it got to the point where you didn’t know what you wanted more: beer or sleep.  Indulge too much of either, and the next project is behind schedule and, before you know it, you’re totally boned.  Indulge too much of both and you end up puking in a trashcan or two as you stumble your way towards Shadow Day, a delightful experience for those prospective high school students looking to choose their post secondary institution (not to name names, but his name rhymes with Boa Fadams).  Mind you, I’m working with a rather small sample set; most of the people I associate with of whom I know their academic (mis)adventures are either in computing science or are those crazy wackjobs that go to grad school.  Party on Garth.
Yet when one is working full-time, days seem shorter and nights achieve some level of normalcy.  By that I mean it’s difficult to make it through the day at work hung over with the same ability to keep down food as a pregnant woman in the morning.  Unless, of course, you have a job as a Wal-mart greeter.  Those people are suspiciously drowsy and slow moving.  Don’t discriminate because they’re old, you ageists.  But I digress.  Work tends to make days go by faster.  There’s some sense of routine, yet not routine (if you have a job you like anyway) that alters the perception of time passage.  Of course it doesn’t help that my roommate has already started Christmas shopping.  Yeah, I know.  Yes, I said the same thing.

Perhaps the fast-paced nature of the working world is supposed to make us think about what’s really important in life.  I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to come to this kind of conclusion until I’m approaching middle age, then compensate for missing this realization by purchasing a fast car to impress the chicks.  Then again, I’ve always managed to overthink into the future and become far too practical.  Damn, I guess I won’t be getting that fast car.  At least not on impulse.  Hmmm…there’s a Magic 8-ball sitting on the shelf, maybe I should ask it.  Nah, the thing’s rigged anyways.

It’s good to take a step back once in a while, shake your head clear of the stress and worries that come with life and work (or school if you still have it.  Suckers.), and contemplate what things you hold important.  Family? Friends? Love? That gorgeous new Lexus droptop that would look really sweet with a hot little number in a red dress sitting in the passenger seat? (Hey, I don’t pretend to know what some mathematicians do in their spare time, but anthropomorphizing pi seems right up their alley.  Right, Bishnu?) Then go outside and step on some flowers.  Little bastards cause all those pesky allergies, plus there’s the bonus of stamping relieving some of that built-up stress.

Speaking of some important stuff, hockey’s back.  Anyone got Center Ice that I can mooch off of when the Canucks have a pay-per-view game?