Lost Count

So just like that girls, your Dad's not a messenger anymore. It was eight o'clock and I was trying to get everyone out to the park so Mom could sleep a little longer. I was changing Harriet's diaper and she peed, and I still hadn't moved the car, and Charlotte was in some state of taking her clothes back off. I didn't have my lunch made and I realized that I didn't have anywhere near enough time to do those things before I booked on. So I gave it a minute to decide if I was already retired, and it felt okay that I wasn't going to have the buildup to my last delivery. It feels silly that it was going to be something monumental, so it's better that it happened yesterday without my noticing. I called Louis and he didn't mind at all, so I just didn't work today. We read some books for a bit and I spent the day figuring out what to do with myself. We headed up Mont Royal, but my instincts told me to have a nap, and I woke up just in time to move the car. Then I headed down to QA and turned in my radio and last manifest. We spent the rest of the day making fun wedding preparations. So how do I feel being an ex-messenger? I looked at the flyer for the Bicycle Film Festival this weekend, and I don't want to go. Half the films are about messengers or polo. Naturally they romanticize the life, and I'd be susceptible to nostalgia or even regret. I'm proud to have been a messenger, but I want to feel good about moving on, and I do.

The whole week was a less-than-spectacular finale, but there I go down the alley just like I did every day.

What we did instead of going to work.

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