Just as I was watching the clock ticking away towards 6pm, I got a message from someone I don't even know I remembered: "Hihi, today I had my wine tasting classes. We tried Premier Cru Red Burgundy. I thought of you. Just like you said, I won't be disappointed by pinot noir." My first reaction was, huh? Did I really say that? When it comes to wine I know next to nothing. Never liked it and don't even remember when was the last time I had it. Pinot Noir. Maybe I made a passing reference to "Sideways" to her? In any event I said long time no see, how are you doing. To this formatic greeting she answered with unexpected enthusiasm, doing very well, she said, now in Paris. I was like, wow, it HAS been a while. why Paris, married? found a job there? she laughed, and said, nice, 2 for 2 for you. Then she asked, "did you become a lawyer and move to NYC like you planned?" It gave me a pause. After brief hesitation I said yes, but I can't help wondering siliently, did I plan for this? No I did not plan for this.

 

Then I was haunted by a vague sense of guilt long after she swiftly signed off. Why am I reluctant to say I got what  I wanted? Even if it's a job to pay off the loan or the first of many jobs to come, I did put me foot down on square one. A shaky footing for sure, but it could have been much worse. I should have been happier, or at least more appreciative. But I'm not about that, I tried to soothen myself. But I'm certainly not above it. I saw the relief in my mom's eyes and I felt like a good son. I walked into the business class section with an expression of well-practiced nonchalance. And I walked out on a private club with self-righteous digust and the arrogance of knowing that I can easily fend off the self-doubt of not being able to afford a sour grape. So yes I wanted it and I planned for it, and I worked my ass off for it. Why am I secrectly ashamed of admitting it. Maybe it's because I'll never know "what it feels like to know that I made the rain". I arrived on the scene, but everyone else has already gone on to the next station. There will not be another train but a deserted platform should feel just like home. To a man of perpetual bad timing.