A change -- a pleasant one -- has recently occurred.

I have become a much happier -- albeit a much odder -- cog in the wheel of humanity. So radical has the shift been that this morning I caught myself giggling on the way to the office.

I shall begin at the beginning of the shift.

Just about two weeks ago, I switched jobs… again. It entailed jettisoning a metric ass ton of paperwork and hassles and slipping back into a massive cocoon of silliness and respite. It even allowed me to quit driving every day and start sauntering to work at whatever time of day pleases my glad happy ass.

So, there’s the back-story.

This morning, as I strolled down the hill headed for the office, I began to do what it is my distinct pleasure to do on a perambulation: think. You can’t really think while fighting rush hour traffic in a truck whose radiator, windshield wipers, and tires you can’t quite trust. But you can think as a pedestrian; in fact, it is encouraged that you do so because it keeps you from becoming a grease spot in a crosswalk.

Thinking, then, is what I had going, and just to add a tad of texture and color -- and to show off a bit -- I was thinking in French. Normally slipping into a Frogified state of linguistic mental gyrations would have had me scanning the pavement for errant piles of dog poo, but most folks here are pretty considerate, and I could let myself wander with little enough risk of a less than pleasant surprise.

So, there I was, about ten blocks from the office, pack on my back, jaunt in my step, and Gallic words wafting through my head like the smoke curling from a left bank elitist’s Gauloise.

I had begun to review my recent long weekend, which involved a series of quite satisfying SCUBA dives, which we all know caused me fits about six months ago. I had words rolling down the paths of my cranium at the speed of a Panzer driving down the Champs-Elysee when something amusing struck me.

“‘Diving,” en Francais, is “plonger sous marine.”

What does that make a “diver”?

A “plongeur,” or, said with a Pennsyltuckian twang, a “PLUNGER.” HA!

You may not be laughing, but at the time, I found it incredibly funny, and I began to chuckle like the crone at the bus stop when an imaginary friend tells a randy joke.

My chuckle turned to a giggle, which soon escalated to a laugh, and I was soon covering my mouth and turning pink with the effort of not dissolving in guffaws.

What struck me next was the modern city dwellers need to not look either crazy or thoughtful, and I pulled out my phone and dialed.

I was still at near chortle when the Dread Pirate (My Favorite Pirate in the Whole World) answered with a jaunty “What up, bitch?” I snickered and cackled through my thoughts until she broke into a dirty French accent and said, “I am a plunger; I will teach you to plunge with the master,” or something to that effect which just made the thinking of my thoughts ever more worthwhile.

I was still in a downright jolly mood when I exited the elevator on my floor of the office building, and to be quite honest, that laugh has colored most of my otherwise mundane Thursday with a grand streak of gleefulness.

I do believe this walking to work thing is a proper sort of way to operate, and, should my irregular thought patterns continue, I shall go on redacting them for outside consumption.