Just Me & Yonge

6 Jun

Today, I walked up Yonge Street.


It’s my new commute. No more do I have to travel the mostly-reliable subway, and no more can I use it “running late” as an excuse in my daily life.

I can walk to work.

It’s awesome. The sun is shining, the freaky-deaky inhabitants of Wellesley/Yonge are all asleep, and the morning puke has already dried on my lovely little walk. I can listen to my iPod, or I can listen to the faint roll of traffic, since it’s too early for people to want to honk their horns at this hour.

The stores are closed, so I’m not tempted to purchase a new nose ring, or a $5 pair of jeans. There’s no one hassling me to come print a tee-shirt or try their protein powder (do I really look that weak?). It’s just me and Yonge.

As I get to the Bloor-Yonge intersection, the world begins to change. Jeans are replaced by suits. Flip-flops are replaced by heels.

It’s time for work.

But come 5 p.m. (okay, 6 p.m.), as I walk South towards the lake, to freedom, I’ll meet again with Yonge – this side her energetic and chaotic other half. And I’ll smile, and she’ll honk and give me the finger, and it will be great.


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