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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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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in a picture

Although I berated the photog, I gotta admit: this picture is a pretty accurate representation of my recent work trip to San Antonio. Sweaty, hot, EXHAUSTING and filled with new clothes (a girl's gotta do...).

I'm back and I'll be dry cleaning the aforementioned, now sweat-soaked attire.

And I've got barrels of Fall fun up my sleeves.

Stay tuned...

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 26
This weekend was brought to us commercial free by our friends at BAD WEATHER, INC. Yes! we got a lot of snow (insert disclaimer about the amount of snow relative to this particular geographic zone, especially considering such factors as El Nino, et all) – big wet flakes perfect for constructing snowmen and convincing me to laze the day away in my PJs. And yes!, I now have a story in my repertoire with the working title “Cab Socializing for Co-workers Forced by Metro Drama to ‘Share the Fare.'” It’s all true.

But a more serious Metro evil is currently consuming my thoughts, chemically peeling back the layers of my already sensitive tolerance for public transit. It’s also raising questions about my actual date of birth. More than once I’ve been reduced to mental subtraction, often necessitating finger counting, which you can imagine is all the more difficult on a crowded train.

I have Metro Menopause.

It’s the drip slithering down my spine to a puddle at the intersection of my pants and shirt. It’s the Richard Simmons “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” mist at my temples. And it washes over me like a tidal wave, usually while I’m teetering on heels and balancing the entire weight of my body between the grip of my forefinger and thumb.

I’ve considered removing one or two of the twenty layers requisite for Metro commuting. But one step onto the uneven stone sidewalk outside the station and I’m instantly frozen; flash frozen. If, if, the heat is working in my office, I thaw around 11 a.m.

Workday completed, I once again embark on the yo-yo temperature rollercoaster. Let's be clear: on this ride, I’m not the crazy in front joyfully flailing my arms.

Actually, I’m probably not even on the ride. I’m sitting in the misting hut, eating a snow cone whilst fanning myself with my ticket stub. At least that’s what I’m doing before the hot chocolate.

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 19
One step and humidity’s suffocating arms cling tight around my body. My entry into the parking garage, deep in the bowels of the apartment building, is met with a tingling, burning sensation in my sinuses. In an instant I’m a snake charmer, seducing a serpent who weaves and slithers slowly, rhythmically through the dense air. I think of turning back, but I’ve already been stung by the hovering odor.

Moisture wells in my eyes and I’m keenly aware of the connection between my nose and stomach. This is not how I’d imagined it, not that I’d spent any time thinking of this before. Like many things the men in my life “just take care of,” I thought it sort of went away naturally with no impact on me. What’s more, I hadn’t imagined our over-priced, mega-hyped, “luxury” apartment building as this sort of place.

I’m just glad I didn’t actually see the rotting rat carcass emitting the stomach-turning fumes. And I’m thankful I didn’t forget where I parked.

Though the smell reached my nose for only a matter of seconds, my memory became permanently emblazoned with the stench. Fortunately, that particular memory was logged somewhere in the back closet of my mind until a few days ago as I entered the Metro station.

Everything felt and happened as it had before, but now I did not have the luxury of speeding away in my car. Each escalator brought me closer to the dead rodent. The gaseous fumes became more concentrated and intense.

Boarding the crowded train was a relief. I even found a seat; I began to breathe again.

Then my eyes discovered the vomit streaking down the side of the car near my leg.

The scent found my nose soon after.

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 16
I’m in a rush, but hoping for a delay. Not for obvious reasons. Work is hectic and busy, the humidity consumes me. And most trains are brimming with passengers recently returned from summer vacations.

I hurry down escalators, careful to avoid the heel-breaking cracks, squeeze onboard and maneuver to a spot where I can keep my balance with one hand fixed. The train speeds forward. Too fast. I will the train to stop (even if it means a jolting, abrupt stop, typical of Metro drivers). We arrive at the next station. I hear the automated voice, “Doors closing, please move to the center of the car.” Too soon. Will someone please get their bag stuck in the door?

It happened the other night and the Metro driver actually got angry. He sounded like someone’s mother who “had it up to here” and said something equivalent to, “If you don’t move away from this door, we are not going anywhere. You know better than that. Don’t make me call your father.” I smile as I remember the incident and secretly hope for another episode.

Doors close. The train is moving more quickly than the usual rush hour pace. Stop, already, I think. We’re at the next station. Only 5 more stops. Come on – why no delays? Another station. And another. We pass through the busy connecting stations which are usually the culprits for delays, but no. Smooth sailing today.

Before I know it, I’m at my stop. I call my mom as I exit the station. “Wow, that was quick,” she marvels.

I know. Why are there only delays when you have somewhere important to be? And when one woman happens to think she has more right than you to be on the train so she pushes against you under the delusion the train has more space and she will actually fit?

I reluctantly replace my book in my oversized tote.

It was just getting good.

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 14
My internal temperature creeps higher as beads of sweat well at my temples. I blink, adjusting to the spotlight, and squint to make out the figures in the black abyss. Something inside reminds me to unlock my knees to keep from fainting. I clench and release both fists at my side, heart beating heavy in my ears.

I know this will happen. The mere thought of a performance induces these anxiety-ridden symptoms. Some comfort can be found in a big stage with hot, blinding lights and no view of the strangers staring back. I can pretend to be anonymous, in my own shower, no one watching.

The more intimate venue in regular lighting, especially among friends and acquaintances, can cause more severe stage fright. I feel exposed, stripped, metaphorically naked, susceptible.

There’s something to be said about the people who take it upon themselves to provide entertainment for Metro riders. I’m not talking about the dreadlock-wearing guitar player or sitar-like-instrument-strumming Yoda guy at the station. I mean the performers ON the Metro.

I’ve only seen it a few times. My first encounter happened during the Christmas season. As per usual my head was buried in a book when a middle-aged Asian man stepped on board the crowded train. Suddenly he began singing Silent Night. As if by a choreographed pop-and-lock move, all heads turned to catch a glimpse of the man with enough courage to not only speak, but SING on the Metro. His melodic rendition of the hymn was lovely, if not without a few “heavenry” and “Siwent” pronunciations. After the five verses, I felt warm and fuzzies and was thankful for the good Christmas feelings he inspired (at least within me).

The experience was a far cry from last night. The Metro has been miserably crowded and slow, forcing me into extra grumpy and annoyed mood swings. After three very crowded trains passed, I boarded and even found a seat. One stop later, I noticed a young teenage kid joining our ride home.

Back to my reading, I blacked out most surrounding noise listening to Sigur Ros on my husband’s IPod, when suddenly I overheard a sound, which, after yanking out my ear buds, I quickly traced to the unsuspecting teenager. I couldn’t help staring. He had his own set of ear buds plugged into what must have been a karaoke tape. Swaying back and forth, he was half singing, half screeching, lost in his own universe. I noticed my fellow passengers stealing glances at the performer. For six of the eight stops between my house and work, the young man continued his performance, oblivious to his surroundings.

It takes guts. I just wish it also took talent. Unfortunately, the stage-fright-free singer sounded more like William Hung than Clay Aiken. Blast American Idol anyway – it’s inspired too many talent-less people to pursue their dreams, some even on the Metro.