A few years and several jobs ago, KB and I were on a train headed downtown. Last stretch of the two-hour commute home, in fact.
Across the aisle, a young mother was watching her young child bounce around and marvel at the city outside.
"What's that?" she would ask, her voice betraying the not-so-secret wonder and pride she found in this child of hers.
"A train!" the boy would answer with the kind of joy reserved for only the very young and the very easily entertained.
Time and again, we looked over just in time to see him stand up to look out the window, fall down on his behind, giggle and repeat.
Finally, KB turned to me and said "Little kids are so stupid," then adding "but you know, in a cute way."
We laughed at this for a while, until I pointed out that she and I both spent several hours each day going to and from jobs we both weren't especially fond of and weren't getting much satisfaction from. We asked ourselves out loud if maybe the little kids have been outsmarting us all along.
KB laughed until she cried.
Once downtown, we went our separate ways, but I think she took that ride home to heart. Not because we both left the company soon afterwards, nor because we both finally got to work on the lives we wanted for ourselves.
No, what convinces me is that she and I haven't really spoken since.