Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 27
I say I’m not picky.

I also say I’m the perfect wife/friend/daughter, with perpetually glowing skin (no doubt due to my inner radiance), who is tragically deprived of clothes and shoes, who’s large and sexy brain casts a shadow upon all within eye/earshot and who never “forgets” to cook dinner or pick up the mountain of clothes constantly peppering the bedroom floor. Did I mention I’m perfect?

Ok, fine. I’m a little picky. But only about the really important things.

Like sandwiches.

I must now pause to wax affectionate about the masterful invention that is the sandwich. It is the king of portable meals; the titan of driving fare; the inspired meeting place for two slices of bread, meat, veggies, et all.

Rather, it has the potential to be a kingly, titan-ish meeting place. BUT only if it’s done right.

Enter picky me.

I don’t like mayo. Or mustard. I think pickles make the bread soggy. I like meat, but not if it’s fatty. And cheese? Yes, please. But it has to be the RIGHT cheese. Mention the words panini, artichokes or basil and I’m panting like an overweight labrador in 95-degree heat. As for bread – sometimes toasted, sometimes not – it really just depends.

This is probably why my new best friends work at the Subway near my office. I’ve found a good combo and I NEVER diverge. NEVER. When I arrive at the sandwich counter, I don’t have to order – my friends see my face and begin sandwich construction. Tragically, though, in addition to preferred customer status, I’ve earned the title of “Olive Sandwich Girl.”

Not so hot.

For all of my sandwich likes/dislikes, I am 100 percent certain my least favorite sandwich is not an edible masterpiece at all. It’s the worst imaginable concoction, with miserable ingredients and a horrifying after taste. I’m not over-dramatizing (and I’m not just saying that either).

I had one (er, was one) on Monday; around 8:15 a.m. (who eats sandwiches at that unsaintly hour anyway?!)

I was on the Metro, armed with my iPod, a lovely book and all the zeal I could muster on said Monday morning. The train was crowded – so much so that me, Ms. five-foot-nothing, was barely griping the overhead pole.

THEN, a few stops later, the train became VERY crowded. And me, Ms. I-fake-happy-Mondays-until-I-make-happy-Mondays, became sandwiched, panini-style. I found myself in the center of the train, literally wedged amongst the crowd.

The top layer of this crappy metro sandwich with ME filling was a big fat, protruding backpack, which hit me squarely in the chest. I sucked in. I scooted back. I tried to inch my way out of the press. Problem: the bottom layer of the crappy metro sandwich with ME filling was a heavy laptop bag, positioned exactly on my rear end. I tried glancing over my shoulder, assuming eye contact and a dirty look would result in relocation of the bottom layer, but no. I rode for six stops pressed against a stranger’s back, with someone's laptop case up in my business.

Needless to say, I ordered a salad for lunch. Not a sandwich. Because I'm picky like that.