Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 43
I regularly (somewhat voluntarily) welcome strangers into my personal space. At least on the metro.

Usually I’m late (either to or from work), desperate to get on a train (ANY TRAIN!) and brashly decide it reasonable to cram into a sea of tangled bodies. When the train doors shut, mystery limbs, stray fingers, purses, sweat beads and heavens-knows-what-else inch across the imaginary boundary I’ve erected around my body that says DO NOT CROSS (unless your name is Chris and you’ve been invited).

Then the regret seeps in.

[Editor’s note: Ask me about the time a creepy guy invaded my personal space on a moderately crowded train. Wait, never mind. That story’s FMTEO (for my therapist’s ears only).]

Anyway, where were we? Crowded trains?

(Insert seamless transition about occasionally un-crowded trains.)

When I’m lucky enough to find a seat, I sit relatively close to total strangers. And with the exception of murderous breath, it’s not a big deal.

But sometimes it’s a HUGE deal.

Like the time I spied the only available seat next to a large-girthed woman. (It was more like half a seat.) I quickly assessed the remaining surface area of the (half-a-)seat versus my (presumed) thigh/butt mass and concluded I could fit (my math may have been influenced by the cute, yet painful, stilettos I’d been wearing for 12 hours). I squeezed in as close to the outer armrest as possible, but my butt wouldn’t slide farther than an inch onto the seat.

Mortified, I considered standing up and moving to another part of the train, but the crowd behind me filled all available standing room.

I sat/hovered/balanced on one cheek for seven stops. My hip grew sweaty against her heaving leg, which spread itself onto my upper thigh. My calves shook with exertion and my back ached to rest against the seatback.

I'm still not sure which intrusion of personal space is worse: a purse up in your business or someone's thigh draped across your leg.

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