Metaphorical Tanker Drivers

When I worked at the petrol station, we had to take in fuel deliveries. This necessitated huge tankers pulling into the forecourt, and the petrol station closing down while I stood drinking coffee with the usually bluff tanker drivers. The tanker drivers were generally an alright lot, though their conversational subjects were of little interest to me; football, their shifts (they loved talking about their shifts for some reason) and... well, that was all they did seem to talk about. I learnt to lie a lot about football. On the occasion that the tanker drivers were more interesting the results could lead into unexpected territory; 'where were you before you came over here?' I said to one tanker driver with an Eastern European accent. 'I was a prisoner in a Serbian concentration camp' came the reply. This left me quite speechless.

The deliveries usually took around 45 minutes, and passed by excruciatingly slow. They weren't that often though - not during the evening shifts - and one could go weeks without seeing in a delivery. 

I cursed the arrival of one delivery though. I had something of a crush on one of my co-workers who was due to return to Poland the next day. This was to be our last shift together (she was a part time worker). In the middle of the shift, and much to my horror, a petrol tanker turned up... This necessitated me having to spend an hour (it was a big delivery) stood chatting inanely to the tanker driver (who was in no rush) while Monika was inside serving customers (who were only forbidden to buy petrol). All I wanted to do was be back inside, and that hour dragged by so slowly...

I only mention this today, because all of work has begun to seem like seeing in that tanker delivery.

Work is just getting in the way of what I want to do, is excruciatingly slow, and is full of crushing tedium. The trouble is, of course, I don't really know what I want to do, and if there is no lost love about to return to foreign climes the next day, I am more than aware that life is passing by all too quickly. How did I get to be 41? How did my thirties pass by that quickly?

Answer's obvious; by wasting my time talking to tanker drivers, those both real and metaphorical.