Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 36
Yesterday I was feeling particularly hot. Not temperature-hot (although maybe temperature-hot considering that everyone else’s temperature crept up a few degrees when they glimpsed my scalding visage). I was HOT hot.

After work, I escorted my (hot) self to the sidewalk in front of my building just in time to cross the busy intersection. Mid-cross, I dropped my cell phone, dislodging the battery and scattering bits of plastic across the street. (Luckily the halting red hand was not down to zero seconds in the CROSS-NOW-OR-DIE count).

As I knelt before a cab bumper smeared in bug guts, my voluminous skirt (that sways and flirts with every tiny burst of wind) inflated like a parachute, nearly flashing my secrets to all in a 10-mile radius.

Frazzled, I somehow managed to retain my modesty, retrieve the various cell phone shards and regain my stride before an overeager cab could flatten me into a road pancake.

But as I stepped onto the opposite curb, I tripped on an uneven piece of concrete. My knees knocked and my ankles twisted while I swung my arms in desperate windmills to regain balance. (My carelessness is probably due to the mind Olympics I was performing, weighing the options of tucking my skirt between my legs and waddling like a penguin, or backtracking to my office and affixing double-sided tape to my kneecaps to battle the wind).

By this point, as my hair (and skirt) swirled around my face, the only part of me that felt hot was my blushing, embarrassed cheeks. I lowered my head to examine the sidewalk (and hide my shame) until eventually boarding a train in my homebound journey.

Nothing puts a "hot" day on ice quite like a two-block trip to the Metro that is more drama-filled than the ride itself.

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