Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 44
I’ve been there 1,750 times (to be inexact).

And it’s usually because I leave myself the minimum number of minutes to get to work on time in the morning.

But this is not intentional. Most days my hair is unwrangle-able. And I have NOTHING TO WEAR. And I pause to brush my teeth (unlike that one guy). And husband (my metro station chauffeur/chaperon) spends 20 minutes getting into his slip-on shoes.

So by the time I arrive AT the metro station, I have LESS than the minimum number of minutes to get to work on time.

I sprint down the escalator, two stairs at a time. Then I power walk across the hexagonal tile and, mid-stride and in one smooth motion, dab the sweat streaming down my forehead, snatch the fare card from my unfathomable purse and slash it over the station turnstile. I pause for two seconds while the gate s----l----o----w----l----y opens, peering over the railing to see a train with beckoning open doors.

Re-hoisting my purse squarely on my shoulder, I rush to the next escalator (my skirt blowing willy nilly in the windy tunnel). Just as I stumble down the last stair, the doors seal shut and the train speeds from the station, leaving me doubled over, panting, dripping with sweat and tugging on my gravity-afflicted pantyhose.

The same thing happened today, only I wasn't starring in the scene.

It was some other lady.

She breezed past me, poking my side with her swinging purse. I was only halfway down the escalator as she impatiently paused at the turnstile. Then she broke into a full sprint, her pencil skirt straining with every stride.

Taking my pretty time, I boarded the final escalator and spotted her already on the platform below, flinging her body at the train's closing doors. In a desperate final attempt, she jabbed her knee between the doors.

And there she stood, caught.

With her left knee raised to the square at waist level and her hands desperately yanking the immovable doors apart, she wobbled unsteadily on one heel. Her face flamed with anger and I could almost hear the seam in the back of her skirt splitting, stitch by stitch.

The doors parted, but just long enough to release her leg from the pinch. She stood by and despondently watched the train vanish.

I almost hugged her, but she was really sweaty and besides, even the greenest metro rookie knows the doors open for nothing and no one.

My advice: save your skirt, breath, makeup and rage. There's a train barreling down the track in t-minus two minutes.

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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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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 42
The weather has been unbearably cold. I don’t dare leave the house until I’m bundled up to my eyeballs, my arms jutting out from my sides (a la The Christmas Story). If I could tuck my skirt into a snowsuit without causing wrinkles, I would. I seriously would. It’s that cold.

Those (197) layers were my only defense last week.

It’s because I was attacked on the metro.

Before you completely freak out (mom), let’s start at the beginning of the story.

As we've already established, the morning was arctic and I left my house completely bundled, layered and mummified (and yet STILL freezing).

(Apparently in addition to fashion description, trauma, terror and the metro, this story is also fraught with multiple parenthetic asides. (Maybe even parenthetic asides inside parenthetic sentences inside parenthesis?)).

I made my way to the metro platform, boarded a train and sat next to a gentleman reading the paper. After peeling back the mitten part of my convertible fingerless gloves (an iPhone essential) and unwrapping my scarf from my face (for breathing purposes), I extracted a book from my Mary Poppins-esque bag and began to thaw.

All was fine for the first stop.

Then came the assault.

A puff of fetid air nailed my nostrils, which flared reflexively. It was immediately evident that I was not dealing with the usual stinky fart or obtrusive B.O. This wasn’t even the ever assailing vomit (although one whiff and I was ready to retaliate with my own regurgitated breakfast).

I tucked my head in my scarf and smelled the faint, yet relieving scent of my perfume.

The train whizzed along.

After a few seconds the air cleared and I sat up straight.

Immediately, another stunning puff of pungent, sour air blasted my nose. I couldn’t tuck my head away before the offender fired again.

Now I knew the source of the stench. He was sitting next to me, reading the paper. And (apparently) unbeknownst to him, his death-inducing breath was eeking from his clenched teeth. Every sigh, every exhale, every throat clear, every minute parting of his lips projected a cloud of stink.

My perfumey scarf was no match for his lack of dental hygiene. The hot air ricocheted off the newspaper and hit me squarely between the eyes. My stomach heaved and sloshed. His breath wrapped its tentacles around my neck and squeezed.

Just as I bowed my head to pray for an emergency train evacuation, he folded the paper, turned to face me and said, “Excuse me. This is my stop.”

I died. On the spot. I’m writing this postmortum.

But for the love of dental floss, can you please take a breath mint and pass one on? I would hate for others to suffer death by breath. It’s a stinky way to go.

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 41
On any given day, my inbox is teeming with five types of e-mail:

1. Bacon-ish messages from friends who appreciate (and fuel) my obsession

2. Tidbits about a certain movie (which, at time of publication, I've seen NINE TIMES in the theatre)

3. Shopping notifications – spam to some, gold to me – from every store on the planet

4. Letters from my mom

5. Items of business pertaining to the metro

Obviously my daily reads are enthralling.

I get most excited about the bacon bits (he he), but also the metro-related messages. I love a good metro-related e-mail. Nothing says "FUN!" like a metro-related item.

(How many more times will I say metro-related? One: metro-related. No, wait. Metro-related).

A while ago, my friend sent me the above picture (the first-ever photo to appear in "Misadventures on the Metro"), with the admonition:

"They have loops. Lame. Now blog about it. Blog for those of us without a voice. Now go. Fly. Fly like the wind."

How can I resist such a challenge? How?!

For the love of those without a voice, I accept the call and will now discuss the loops on the metro, which – sorry, friend – are an answer to my prayers. I truly prayed them into fruition.

Why was I praying for loops on the metro and not to win the lottery? Because I’m logical, people. I’m also short. And I’ve been forced to hold an overhead pole on the metro one too many times. These lovely loops save me from stretching four extra inches, which used to set my arm afire with exertion. The loops are also fun, swinging me to and fro, causing a more motion-y ride.

Tonight I will say a prayer of gratitude for my lovely metro loops.

And – wait for it – metro-related messages.

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 40
Even semi-cute girls in fashionable purple dresses and gladiator sandals pick their noses.

Trust me.

I wouldn’t have noticed were I not sharing her seat on the Metro and slyly admiring her shoes. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her hand extend toward her face. Without so much as a sideways glance to ensure no witnesses, she jammed an index finger up her nose. After digging and excavating for at least 30 seconds, she flicked the extraction(s) in the general direction of my feet (which were flip flop-clad and suddenly very vulnerable).

I bowed my head, pretending to read as her hand again inched north. All I could do was read and re-read two paragraphs as she mined for green gold in my peripheral vision.

I spent the remainder of the trip inching my toes as far away from her dumping grounds as possible, swallowing the lump of queasiness rising in my throat and staring blankly at the same page of my book.

And contemplating the injustice of such a cute pair of shoes on the undeserving feet of a public nose-picker.

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 39
I wish I had the shamelessness of a five-year-old. (Note that I said shamelessness, not maturity. I’m super mature – shut up!)

It’s no secret that certain odors cause uncontrollable giggles to rumble through my body (sometimes forcing unintended liquid to spurt from my nose).

(Am I overdoing the parentheses?)

But sometimes said odors do not inspire laughter. Sometimes they cause my eyes to fill with stinging, acidic tears. Sometimes the odors make my throat constrict, blocking my shallow breaths from reaching my pleading, desperate lungs. Sometimes they trigger my gag reflex and I feel the scalding burn of stomach acid at the back of my throat.

Let’s just say I wasn’t in giggle mode a few days ago.

I was, however, on the Metro, which may explain the problem. After 10 minutes on the train, I noticed a faint, sour odor. I mistakenly inhaled.

It was a fart.

A smelly, sticky, lethal fart. (Does toot work better for you? Sorry, this stinker was definitely a fart.)

The evil smell began to burgeon throughout the enclosed metro car, creeping up my nostrils and causing pools of sweat to puddle at my temples. In a matter of seconds I was enveloped in the gaseous cloud of death and began hallucinating as one does right before “the end.” Instead of seeing my life flash before my eyes, I was assaulted by swirling images of outhouses, rotten eggs, sewers and poop, all set to the soundtrack of rumbling rear noise.

I began wobbling back and forth as I fought unconsciousness. Somewhere through the thick cloud of stink a tiny garbled voice mumbled, “Doors are closing. Please move to the center of the car.”

I stumbled through the crowd and desperately flung my body toward the exit. Once in the station, I doubled over, gasping for air as the thick cloud slowly dissipated. I stumbled to the first escalator and rode until my legs regained their strength.

With my head cleared, I was suddenly enraged. Not only enraged, I was LIVID! I wanted to stomp back on board, channel my inner shameless five-year-old and call out the culprit. I wanted to point and scream, “YOU did it! YOU FARTED! You are SO GROSS!”

Then the remembrance of the smell overwhelmed my thoughts and I nearly tumbled down a 50-foot escalator. I quickly regained my footing and ran toward the clean fresh air, two stairs at a time.

Maybe next time I’ll just eat beans in advance and hope someone gets their dues.

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All before 8:30 a.m.

First I saw one of these on the Metro:
It was pacing the floor in front of me, forcing my heart to sprint as I glanced up from my book every five seconds to make sure it wasn't going to eat me. I can't remember a single word I read.

Then, I walked out of the Metro station to see one of these:
It's not every day you see 20 copcycles (cops on mo-ped/motorcycles) and suburbans filled with black, automatic weapon-clad giants. Oh and there were two cars of important people.

What's the weirdest thing you saw today?

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 38
I awoke supremely grouchy this morning, likely due to a new up-at-5 a.m-to-run routine. Or the after-midnight bedtime I’m embracing. Or large doses of hectic-ocity (new word – use it, own it!) at work.

Or maybe my husband beat me with a decorative (though deceptively treacherous) throw pillow while I slept.

Whatever the case, I departed for work with a less-than-sunny disposition.

Luckily, my metro train came without fanfare or delay. I boarded, cranked my iPod to rocking, cracked my book and slouched into a vacant seat.

Swept away in a particularly awesome part of my particularly pleasurable read, I barely noticed when the train stopped between stations.

Then the “air conditioning” (as in air that only works under certain conditions, most often blowing cold air when it’s cold outside and hot air when it’s hot), became noticeably absent.

Huh.

I continued reading.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flash of someone walking through the tunnel outside the train.

Huh?

My seatmate and I swapped confused eyebrow raises.

Then a burly man in a neon yellow vest barreled through the aisle. People scattered like ants as the man hoisted a seat in the air, assessing gadgets below.

Er, huh?

Then the neon-clad man wordlessly stomped to the opposite side of the train where he twisted the screws on a wall panel displaying an ad for something like the National Association of Kites Entangled in Dumpsters (NAKED), opened the wall (?) and twisted a metal lever.

HUH???

He stomped through the door at the end of the train to the next car.

Then the train moved.

Huh.

We arrived at the next station and were forced to evacuate the train.

I stood on the platform, reading.

Suddenly my eyes froze on the page. I wasn’t annoyed or grumpy. I didn’t feel put-out or worried about whether I’d make it to work on time. I wasn’t fixated on my lack of sleep or sore legs. I wasn't concerned about the terrorists who may have been the cause of the train malfunctions. I didn’t care that I’d have to wedge myself on the next overflowing train and strain through a sea of arms for a holding place.

My sudden mood swing was as inexplicable as the yellow-vested, secret-lever-twisting, tunnel-walking burly guy. A smile crept across my face and if I had a mirror to see my own reflection, I'd say it was the most surprising thing I'd seen all morning.

Huh!

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 37
Few events provoke the life-sucking, soul-depleting, bang-my-head-against-my-desk DREAD I feel when I see a metro alert in my inbox. Alerts = major delays. Alerts are the equivalent of an awkward doctor exam involving a tiny paper nightgown and detailed, probing…questions.

They started popping up early Monday afternoon (the delays, not whatever you imagined when you read “paper nightgown”). Monday, as it happened, was also the day Mother Nature cranked the temperature and humidity levels so high that a mere glance out my window triggered glistening sweat droplets at my hairline. (I smartly applied liberal swipes of Secret in the morning. Just to be safe).

The first alert: delays due to mechanical difficulties.

Same with the second.

Then a third.

But by the fourth, the true story emerged – delays due to a train derailment. Shuttle service available...

Train. Derailment.

Shuttle. Service.

Crap!

Immediately, my office swirled into a frenzy of complaints, vows to NEVER RIDE THE METRO AGAIN!!!!! and alternative planning. When my boss, who was heading in the general direction of my house, offered a ride, my co-worker and I abandoned our e-mail message compositions mid-sentence and sprinted for the elevator. Metro catastrophe narrowly averted!

Then yesterday happened.

As I weighed the wording of a critical e-mail message (ie: forwarded a butt joke), the dreaded alert showed its scummy face in my inbox. I gingerly opened what was sure to be bad news -- “delay due to mechanical difficulties.”

Knowing I would spend at least an hour sweating in a muggy station squished between sweaty strangers, I mustered my courage and rushed to the metro.

Little did I know…

I approached the platform to see a train from another line beckoning passengers with its wide-open doors. Fifteen minutes and about 300 people crowding the platform later, the train triumphantly announced the doors were closing and it disappeared into the black tunnel.

Less than a minute later, my (very, very crowded) train arrived. As I maneuvered onboard, I was blindsided by a cloud of hot, sticky air mixed with sweat, b.o., breath and – pardon my French – toots.

You can imagine how awesome it was to straddle a girl seated on the floor and struggle to remain upright as a short woman with junk in her trunk pressed her "junk" against my hamstrings. My damp pole-holding hand shifted with every bump and turn and I was in a constant battle to keep my forehead sweat from dripping in my eyes or dripping on the girl seated below.

I didn’t realize how sweaty I was until I got home and looked in my mirror. I saw me (at least I think it was me), but my shirt was a completely different color.

It’s safe to say I’m driving for the rest of the week.

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Would you rather?

Would you rather drive through a tornado-inducing storm, fight buckets of rain with two puny windshield wipers and dodge toppled trees on a narrow two-lane road...

...or suffer a weather delay-induced Metro ride with 8,000 stranded passengers?

My choice was pretty obvious:

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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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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 35
If I had surgery to extract the part of my brain that handles Metro riding, a perplexed team of doctors would discover a blob of crusty, calloused, withered, black –- who am I kidding? No part of my brain is dedicated to Metro riding.

Commuting in the city is such a monotonous, have-to-do daily task that I, like most people, switch to autopilot when I travel. The result is crowded city sidewalks filled with glassy-eyed zombies and Metro trains brimming with strangers whose closeness would require at least two stiff drinks under any other circumstances.

It’s almost like losing an hour of my life everyday –- half-an-hour drowsily traveling to work in the morning and half-an-hour dragging myself home at night.

The other day was like all the others I’ve lost commuting.

Except it wasn’t.

I made my way to the train platform (don’t ask me how – I was on autopilot, after all) and was already on planet White Stripes, reading my book. All of a sudden, a man walked up to me, tapped my shoulder and asked me a question. Startled, I pulled out an ear bud and asked, “Excuse me?”

“I heard that book is great. How do you like it?”

(Who knows what my shocked face looked like at that point.)

I stammered, “It’s interesting. I'm enjoying it so far.”

“I’ve heard that. I’ll have to check it out.”

He turned and walked away. No request for money. No creepy pick-up line. Just a man who wanted my opinion on the book I was reading.

Mouth gaping, I stood in frozen silence for six seconds.

By the time the train arrived, I was back on autopilot. I boarded and found a pole to balance against.

Suddenly, I felt another tap on my shoulder. (By now I was convinced someone pasted a “tap me” sign on my back.)

“Would you like to sit?” A nice woman glanced from my high heels to my bulky purse and smiled.

“Oh, thanks, but I’m okay.”

Now there was no returning to autopilot. I spent the remainder of the trip glancing from passenger to passenger –- awaiting my next shoulder tap.

I took comfort in the swarm of commuting zombies who exited the train at my station.

But then, a girl walking up the escalator ahead of me flailed her arms just inches away from knocking me down the stairs.

I should be thankful I was actually thinking or my obituary would read, "In loving memory of Becky, who fell down an escalator in the Metro station. We can only imagine the 'Misadventure on the Metro' she would have written."

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 34
Today a train barreled into the station revealing a mass of twisted limbs, purses, hair-dos and jackets through every flashing window. I glanced at the station marquee.

Next train -- 7 minutes

Determined, I clamped one arm over my shoulder bag and headed for the doors. I somehow managed to squeeze down the isle to a pole in the middle of the train and after a minute, was engrossed in my book.

Suddenly a hip-checking bump caused me to wobble on one heel. My sideways glance was met with the icy stare of an older lady. I offered a polite "I'm-sorry-you-bumped-me" smile and continued reading.

As the train began moving, my right side crumpled under an unknown weight. I could feel my spine cracking and urgently looked over my shoulder. The lady grabbed the handle of my purse (my very beautiful, could-only-afford-it-on-sale purse) and was twisting and pulling to regain her balance.

I expected an embarrassed cough and apologetic smile. Instead, her accusing stare pierced my soul, marking me the violator.

"Excuse me," I offered.

"Excuse ME," she sarcastically retorted.

She jabbed her hand toward the pole, overlapping my fingers, which I quickly shifted downward. I moved to my left and she filled the space, rolling her eyes and huffing in exasperation.

Stunned, I replaced the (gorgeous) purse on my shoulder and fixed my eyes on my open book. As I peered over the pages, the lady removed her hand from the pole and lifted it to her mouth to cover two damp coughs. She resumed her grip and re-furrowed her brow.

Maybe next time I'll forego the middle isle for a crowded spot near the door (even at the risk of skirt danger). I love my purse (and health) too much for this abuse.

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 33
Last night was a fairly uneventful commute home – no unwelcome serenades, no sleazy pick-up lines, no nudity (that I know of). But then, like Pepe le Peu’s steaming trail of “love,” I caught whiff of a nostril-searing scent. I could tell it was bad, but as is often the case with unpleasant smells, I needed confirmation. I inhaled deeply.

Suddenly a familiar sourness pooled at the back of my throat. My eyes welled with tears. I swallowed hard.

Do I really smell vomit?

My stomach turned in confirmation. I held my breath (and stomach) for the remainder of the ride.

-----

This morning an ice storm ruined my day. While I had the boss’ blessing to arrive two hours late, I nearly died on the hockey-rink sidewalks.

When I reached the metro station, my train was pleasantly un-crowded, allowing me to find a seat and settle in for the ride.

Out of nowhere another stomach-turning musty smell began to overwhelm my airspace. I immediately ceased nose breathing and parted my lips, narrowly avoiding nausea.

Just then I glanced toward the closing doors and noticed the station sign. It should have read, “Hey, idiot. This is your stop! Why are you still on the train?”

Did I really miss my stop?

-----

After a minor detour, I made it back to my original destination. As I was exiting the station, I passed within a foot of a pigeon statue.

The statue adjusted its feathers.

Did I really just see a pigeon inside the depths of the metro station?

Weirder things have happened, I guess.

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 32
Today, I was that girl.

I was that girl who forgot her keys, most notably the key to the work building elevator. By the time I realized my mistake it was too late to turn back.

I was that girl who bumbled down the metro station escalator while stabbing at iPod buttons with sausage-sized gloved fingers. (I was also that girl who lives in constant fear of tripping on the escalator and plummeting to a grizzly death. This fear is particularly pronounced when I wear cuffed trousers because my friend Julia once caught her heel in her pant cuff and broke her leg. I had sympathy pains until her cast was removed). Sufficiently frustrated, I tore off the glove, made a few more accurate stabs and shoved the stupid thing in my purse.

My arrival at the train platform was accompanied by the tune of the three-note jingle just before, “The doors are closing. Please move to the center of the car.” I leapt forward and suddenly, I was that girl crushed between the closing doors.

The doors popped open and I was almost that girl who barely manages to squeeze on the train, but instead, I was that girl who trips and falls into the arms of two strangers near the doors. My embarrassed apologizes were met with exactly one knowing smile and one crusty glare.

Suddenly I was that girl who realizes too late that there are no places to hold. Then I was that wobbly girl nearly collapsing with every jolt of the train. Then I was that girl with throbbing feet, regretting the decision to pull a long-forgotten pair of shoes from the archives. And then I was that girl whose fingers were numb from pinching the metal molding around the door in an attempt to maintain balance.

Eventually I was that girl so pathetic that a stranger offers her his seat.

That girl is so annoying.

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My love for the Metro has no end

According to the DCist, a no-pants Metro ride is planned this Saturday. While I'm generally opposed to the idea of pants (ask me about my once daily "discussions" with Chris on the topic), I cannot sanction such a spectacle. My retinas are too valuable.

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 31
I’d be lying to say it was unexpected. I mean, it was and it wasn’t.

When I was a Metro rookie, it was totally expected. Those were the days of heart palpitations at each station stop, desperate pole clinging and an evil internal voice whispering cautions like, “LOOK! See that normal-looking man over there? HE COULD BE A TERRORIST! Your life is in GRAVE DANGER.”

I slowly discovered that riding the exact. same. train. every. single. morning. eliminated the oh-NO!-what-station-is-this panic. And rather than fear stripper-pole balancing, I gained a new appreciation for the art. And I learned the stance (aka the dance) to prevent awkward spills (resulting in awkward flashes).

Then I became apathetic.

Mr. Average Joe with a curiously large black bag? I bet he’s—--RED SHOES! Whoa, check out that girl’s red shoes. Cute; I wonder if she got them on sale at Nordstrom.

“Next station Ros”—--do I have to make dinner tonight? Good thing I have a great recipe for cereal…

After the apathy came RAGE. The residual grumpiness emanating from 99.9 percent of my fellow Metro passengers started to ooze into my soul. All of a sudden, I was sighing loudly at people with the audacity to SPEAK while using public transportation.

This brings me to last Wednesday, where I found myself apathetically balancing on the stripper pole, involuntarily sighing at my neighbors and booked on a one-person cruise to iPodville, all the while juggling thoughts of cereal and shoes. I was nearing the end of my journey when it happened.

I almost pinched myself – really? It happened?

Too shocked to respond, I froze with a perplexed look on my face until I reached my stop and exited the train.

Finally, after six months of fear and two years of forgetting to fear, my toes were crushed under the stilettos of a wobbly fellow passenger.

The worst part (besides the searing pain)? I kid you not – the same thing happened on my way home, only this time the culprit was a 300-lb. man.

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 30
No denying it’s AWKWARD – a hand touch here, a brush against the body there, random sandwiching. Most rational human beings do not test these moves on strangers.

But if you ride the Metro, or any public transportation for that matter, you wave your right to become offended in 90 percent of awkward situations (you retain your right to offense for acts stretching beyond the “Ooops, sorry, I didn’t mean to touch your arm” or “Man, can you believe how crowded this train is – I can barely move” categories).

Apparently Random Fat Bald Man did NOT get the memo.

A few nights ago the train was packed like a tin of spam. Since I’m aware of the offense waiver, I squeezed on board and accepted both the eminent violation of my personal space and the depressing fact that I couldn’t even crack my book. It was, after all, nearly time for my nightly cocktail, bon bons and palm frond fanning by a tan, muscular, semi-clothed hunk. I could endure.

Without a book and pressed on all sides by a tall suit, a bulky-bagged blonde, a sweaty middle-aged newspaper reader and someone I could not see (but could feel) behind me, I settled into iPod fantasyland and ebbed and flowed with my fellow passengers.

Five stops along the homeward journey I was startled by a commotion further down the car.

“Get out of the WAY! Move OFF the train.”

With elbows extended like a defensive linebacker, the man’s body eventually caught up with his voice as he violently shoved through the crowd. By the time he passed me he was yelling “GET OFF THE *&%#ING TRAIN. WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU?!” He (literally) spit in the face of a nice lady as he barreled off the train in a huff.

The grumbling passengers re-positioned themselves, the lady wiped the spit from her face and the commute continued as if nothing happened.

I didn’t get mad until I was walking home, contemplating the injustice of the situation. Even though I wasn’t personally impacted (read: spit upon), I felt violated. I should have lifted my knee when I had a shot.

Which reminds me – you know what else is awkward? Unclaimed putrid lingering gas. And trust me, it’s not covered under the offense waiver.

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 29

Dear Body,

We both know I have an extensive list of qualms with you. Most days I’d rather puncture my eyeballs with dull forks than stare at your reflection. If you wanted, you could solve this whole squabble tonight while I sleep by morphing into a 5’7”, leggy, slim-curvy size 4 with flawless skin and hair. I’m not being unreasonable here.

For today, let’s address qualm #12098398 – you’re being a big fat PANSY.

You know you are. It’s like you wake up and say, “Good Morning, world. I’m Becky’s body and I’ll do whatever I feel like doing!” Lately you feel like cuddling up with every single nasty germ you run across. Then you sing it a love song. And spoon it to sleep.

At first I was cool with you bringing home an occasional germ. Who doesn’t love a sick day and the requisite time off work? After some rest I’d return to regular life with my religious hand washing and sanitizing, but your lusty germ desires trumped all hygiene attempts. And now, three months later, I’ve suffered your self-indulgence LONG ENOUGH.

The real problem is the Metro. And the fact that a stranger so much as sneezes in your vicinity and you’re sniffling by noon. I’m fed up with the perpetual coughing, sneezing, nose-running, body aches, fever and plugged ears.

What do we need to do – install sick-screeners to weed out the ill at all Metro stations? Actually, that’s not a bad idea. We’re not talking full physicals, but there’s got to be some sort of body scanner to detect both sickness and contagion levels. If not, DEAR WORLD, PLEASE INVENT THIS!

Or we could run quarantine trains. It doesn’t even have to be an entire train, just a few cars. These cars would be allocated to diseased riders. Feeling warm? No problem – Ride the Quarantine Car! Runny nose? Quarantine Car. Itchy throat? QUARANTINE CAR. I guess we’d also have to hire Quarantine Car officers to sift the "diseased" from the DISEASED.

Perhaps the solution lies in education. Metro riders should be required to complete “Metro Sanitation 101” before riding. (Let’s throw in “Metro Courtesies 101” for good measure). We’ll have an entire section about hand washing, and how to cough into your arm and NOT the hand used for pole balancing.

Then again, maybe the answer is simple. Just as I use hand washing to combat your affinity for dirty, dirty germs, maybe the Metro can use cleaning to combat the spread of viruses. Metro Janitors are rumored to exist, but I dare you to ride a train and conclude the stains, smudges and mystery spots are only a day or two old. I’m willing to bet those “janitors” use the same rag to wipe down all surfaces, essentially enabling wider germ distribution. That is, if the “janitors” even exist.

I’m getting sidetracked. What I’m trying to tell you is STOP LOVING METRO GERMS. Quit it! Seriously.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to draft a strongly worded letter to the Metro powers that be.

Disdainfully yours,
Becky

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Mini Misadventure/Secret weapon RED LIPS

By now you know I ride the metro and I promise -- everything I've ever told you is 100 percent true (believe, me, I can't make this stuff up).

During today's commute I was abiding the unspoken rule of standing to the right on the escalator when a man passed me on the left and said, "I have to tell you - you look gorgeous this morning. And I'm serious." Then, unlike last time, he continued on his merry way.

With a who? me? embarrassed/flattered/awkward smile on my face, I exited the station.

Three steps later, I kid you NOT, another (albeit homeless) man walked by and said, "Good morning, how are you?" I replied, "Good, thanks." He continued, "You look really great today."

And then Brad Pitt walked by...

Okay, that part was a lie. (Don't I wish, though?!)

There can be only one explanation for this showering of flattery -- RED LIPS, people. That's right. Today I'm sporting RED lipstick.

See for yourself:

- Red (really red) lipstick
- Mustard yellow portrait collar Jackie O sweater
- White cotton cami
- Black knee-length polished cotton shorts
- Black patent leather peep-toe wedges with ankle strap
- Over-sized pearl studs

What have we learned?
- Red lips are the key to free compliments
- Compliments from strangers may be strangely glorious -- pass it on!
- When blogging about compliments, always illustrate your point with a searing diva photo

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