Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 2

Life on the metro has become increasingly bland, although I can’t say I’m sad. Without the fear of suffocation by massive midsection or offensive body odor (not my own, of course) my only worry is my toe. The toe mention might seem to confirm any lingering doubts about my level of sanity, but you’ll soon believe this worry is not unfounded.

In this city black tie apparel is not reserved solely for the company Christmas party. With endless interns and cronies on a perpetual rat race, everyday is a dress-up day. It’s refreshing to see people taking their jobs (or maybe just their appearance) so seriously; refreshing until you see their footwear. As a self-proclaimed shoe junkie, I’ve always noticed foot candy (or the lack thereof). And since an infection on my big toe preventing me from parading around in anything more than flip flops, I’ve longed for the days of frivolous shoe shopping.

Mall withdrawals aren’t my biggest problem. Protecting my carefully bandaged toe from spiked heels and polished lace-ups is a full time job during my morning commute. The standing-room-only metro cars have become a battlefield of shoe artillery ready to squash innocent bystanders. I’ve almost discontinued any attempt to read for fear of a sneak attack.

By the time I get to work, I’m exhausted from dodging footwear offensives. I can barely muster the strength to track down French-speaking press in Canada, contact the FBI or prepare for congressional meetings. But those are topics for a different day. For now I’m resigned to looking at my feet and counting my toes, or rather the days until I no longer have to worry about them.