On the bus or not

I can be a little bit of a control freak.

I like my routines, to the point of mild obsessive-compulsiveness in certain areas, probably.

So yesterday, I had a meeting in D.C., and a cab was supposed to pick me up at 6a.m. for my 6:36 train. The train station is only about 10 minutes away, but they wanted to allow plenty of time; I didn't feel the need to arrive super-early -- I hate waiting at Metropark station, which always feels dirty and has limited seating on the D.C.-bound side of the station -- so I wasn't too concerned when the cab didn't arrive right on time.

At 6:07, I called, and was told the guy was right around the corner and would be there in one minute.

At 6:17, I was told it'd be two or three minutes.

At 6:24, I told the third person that I was in my car driving myself, and he kept insisting the guy would be right there.

By the time I got to the station, found parking, and paid at one of those little machines (five bucks for 24 hours -- why don't I always just drive myself and park? I'm an idiot; I've lived where I live for two years, and I'm just now figuring this out), it was 6:34, so I started running.

Across the parking lot, under the train tracks, up the stairs to the platform just after the train pulled in. Running, running, running, in my cute little skirt and clompy heels, but I made it.

But I did not make it in time to get a Diet Coke and a New York Times, my staples for my train rides to D.C., or the chocolate-frosted donut that I get when I leave from Metropark (I used to get a Roy Rogers biscuit whenever I left from Trenton in the morning, and I went through a similar feeling of fidgety, lost helplessness when the Roy Rogers closed).

But I got myself some Rice Krispies and a can of Diet Pepsi, and I had my iPod and a good issue of the New Yorker, so the ride was okay, even though it wasn't exactly as I like it; I started wondering if it's more OCD or just being a spoiled brat that I get cranky when my routine goes awry.

Anyway, the rest of the day was fine; good meeting, and I wandered around Dupont for a while before meeting a friend for dinner. We went to Cosi for s'mores afterward, and I totally lost track of the time. My return train was leaving at 8:30, and it was 8:12 when my friend happened to look at his watch and said, "Uh, are you gonna miss your train?"

I got to Union Station at 8:28, and my train wasn't listed on the monitor; there were only three more trains listed for the rest of the night, and only one of them seemed to be going in my general direction. There were a couple of Amtrak employees hovering around Gate B, and a guy in a suit running toward them hollering, "I just changed my ticket!" The attendant said, "If you can catch it before they close the doors, you can hop on."

I tore after him, confirmed it was the 8:30 to New York, and hauled ass down the platform. I felt like Forrest Gump, running, running. I lost my left shoe, which I thought would be my downfall (damn you, clompy heels!), but I managed to make it onboard literally five seconds before the door shut, running the last two-thirds of the way with one shoe on, the other in my hand.

I guess it's good for me to have these moments where I let go, where I'm not Little Ms. Anal Pants, where I get over not having my Diet Coke and my newspaper and my donut, where I get wrapped up in a conversation with a dear friend and care more about that than being first in line to board the train and get the window seat with the power outlet, where everything turns out just fine even if it doesn't go exactly to plan.

Much more of this literal running around, and I may have a heart attack, or at least break an ankle, but maybe I'll strive for more of a happy medium.