Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 28
Every morning I curse the architect of our apartment building. Actually, in the interest of specificity, I curse the heating/cooling architect of our bathroom.

Also atop my daily cursing list: my alarm clock, my HAIR (more on this later), my desolate and wholly uninspired wardrobe, and Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney’s rendition of “The Girl is Mine,” which plagues my brain non-stop nine mornings out of 10 (I wish I was joking).

Anyway, about the heating/cooling debacle: some genius thought it wise to install a fan in our bathroom. Maybe a good idea in theory, but I believe bathroom fans do little more than produce annoying droning while swirling odors around the room. Additionally, the bathroom “genius” mounted a heat lamp. When was the last time you needed a heat lamp in your bathroom?

While installing miscellaneous electronics of dubious value, Mr. Bathroom neglected an essential: a vent to our heat and A/C. Thus, I feel no pleasant cool breeze on my toes while I brush my teeth nor is my hair ruffled by re-circulated air while I, ahem, take care of business. Why? NO VENT!

So every morning I awake, curse the above-mentioned list, shower, painstaking apply makeup (trust me, I don’t wake up this gorgeous) and embark on the formidable task of hair styling. I am never excited about this last part, and not just because my hair requires a volatile cocktail of products. Mostly, I dread my HAIR DRYER, because in a bathroom with no vent, a hair dryer is a one-way ticket to HELL!

After about five minutes with my DEATH DRYER, thick beads of sweat form at my hairline. My flushed cheeks develop a glossy glow. I slam down the dryer and stomp into the bedroom to position myself directly beneath the A/C vent. I glance at the time, realize my hair should have been DONE five minutes ago, and brave another round in the sauna (aka my bathroom on HAIR DRYER).

Eventually, my hair-do is complete, although my bangs tend to “wave” due to the heat and sweat, which never makes me happy. Sufficiently cranky, I attempt outfit selection (don’t get me started on the seven shades of grumpy evoked by this task), dress and leave.

Fast forward to today.

As per usual, I’m sweaty, cross and running late. And did you know we’re in the middle of an Indian Summer (aka 90-degree October days)? Oh, and I had a press conference in the city first thing, requiring me to sport a business suit (WITH A JACKET).

So I get to the Metro station, rush to the train platform, alarmingly glance from the “next train sign” to my watch, and fan myself with my book. After three long minutes, the train arrives, packed to overflowing. Determined, I squeeze my way onto the last possible spot in front of the doors. The doors close and the train begins to move. I balance myself with my pointer finger in the doorway and begin to step forw-

OH MY GOSH! I’m caught. As I wobble to maintain balance in the speeding train, I realize my skirt is caught in the door. I half-heartedly attempt to dislodge it, fighting off horrible visions of the skirt being torn from my body and using my purse as a protective shield. I press my body as close to the door as possible and pray the skirt holds together until the next station.

Meanwhile, thick beads of sweat cascade down my forehead while puddles form at the small of my back.

We arrive at the next station, doors open and I immediately stroke the backs of my thighs to ensure my skirt is still in one piece. Phew! No tears.

But that doesn’t change my mood. After all, my bangs are waving, my makeup melting and I’m mentally editing my daily cursing list. Note to self: add sweat-inducing, skirt-eating, make-me-late-for-work Metro to the list.

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