Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 26
This weekend was brought to us commercial free by our friends at BAD WEATHER, INC. Yes! we got a lot of snow (insert disclaimer about the amount of snow relative to this particular geographic zone, especially considering such factors as El Nino, et all) – big wet flakes perfect for constructing snowmen and convincing me to laze the day away in my PJs. And yes!, I now have a story in my repertoire with the working title “Cab Socializing for Co-workers Forced by Metro Drama to ‘Share the Fare.'” It’s all true.

But a more serious Metro evil is currently consuming my thoughts, chemically peeling back the layers of my already sensitive tolerance for public transit. It’s also raising questions about my actual date of birth. More than once I’ve been reduced to mental subtraction, often necessitating finger counting, which you can imagine is all the more difficult on a crowded train.

I have Metro Menopause.

It’s the drip slithering down my spine to a puddle at the intersection of my pants and shirt. It’s the Richard Simmons “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” mist at my temples. And it washes over me like a tidal wave, usually while I’m teetering on heels and balancing the entire weight of my body between the grip of my forefinger and thumb.

I’ve considered removing one or two of the twenty layers requisite for Metro commuting. But one step onto the uneven stone sidewalk outside the station and I’m instantly frozen; flash frozen. If, if, the heat is working in my office, I thaw around 11 a.m.

Workday completed, I once again embark on the yo-yo temperature rollercoaster. Let's be clear: on this ride, I’m not the crazy in front joyfully flailing my arms.

Actually, I’m probably not even on the ride. I’m sitting in the misting hut, eating a snow cone whilst fanning myself with my ticket stub. At least that’s what I’m doing before the hot chocolate.