Waiting on the Waterfront

            This morning I arrived in Plymouth early before work. I know that the trip down Route 3 only takes me about twenty-five minutes, and I still end up arrived well before I’m supposed to be at my desk morning after morning. I could very easily sit down on the couch, put my feet up, and watch the news for ten minutes. But instead, I get into my car.

            I suppose I just don’t like waiting.

            When Grace sees me changing into my work clothes, she starts watching me like a hawk. Her ears tuck back against the sides of her skull. Her eyes tilt upward, and her head stays low to her body. She scampers after me whenever I walk out of the room. And she finds her bed, curls into a ball, and pretends to be sleeping.

            I’m never quite sure if she realizes that I can see her eyes are open.

             I don’t like leaving her any more than she likes me leaving. I know I have to go to work in Plymouth because it’s good money and will pay for dog trainer school in the fall. The future coerces me to put the key in the ignition every morning, even when I’d rather stay home in my jeans and sweatshirt and with my puppy’s head in my lap.

            Since I never got a key to the office, I can’t head inside to start work early and head off the inevitable flood of emails. I really have two options for how I spend my time.

            I could park my car in the parking lot, scroll through Facebook on my phone, and listen to the radio. I’d be glancing at my watch too often, and I’d quickly run out of engaging features on my phone. Maybe that’s a sign I need more Facebook friends.

            Or I could stop by the waterfront.

            I parked my car in a two-hour parking space in front of the Mayflower II gift shop, closed now for the winter season. I tucked my wallet and phone into my pocket, grabbed my keys and camera, and carefully avoided the ice on the ground beneath my door.

            No wind rustled the bare trees at the shore; the gray sea lay flat and calm. Sunrise already came and went, and the yellow ball of sun hung well over the horizon. The Atlantic air didn’t feel as cold as the thermometer in my car claimed. Sure it wasn’t t-shirt weather, but it wasn’t bad for the first day of spring.

            I seemed to be the only one out on this little patch of land right now. That was just fine with me.

            Standing next to Plymouth Bay, all of the tension dissipated from my chest. My shoulders felt lighter. The wide open air and space over my head lifted me until I grew another two inches. At least I’d swear that I did.

            Waiting for work didn’t feel a whole lot like waiting. It felt better than that.

            Moments like these happen infrequently. I’m always working, whether in Plymouth or Hanover, and tension buzzes in across my muscles and beneath my skin. I walk across a swaying tightrope above the chasm of complete exhaustion. Some days I’m not sure how I stay on the rope.

            But this morning, as I walked along the edge of Plymouth Bay, I thought the wait could be bearable. Soon enough the weather would be warm. Soon enough this job would end and I’d start dog walking. Soon enough I’d be in Ohio at dog trainer school.

            Soon enough my life would begin. Though, maybe it has already started.