Tuesday, October 26, 2004

On Gonads, Victory, and Minutiae

Yesterday was the pinnacle of my accomplishments as a human on this planet. After a month of commuting--silently honing my skills, watching and waiting for the perfect chance to take unsuspecting middle-aged, Monday-weary men by surprise--I won. I won the race. I was the FIRST goddamn person off the train, the FIRST person out of the station, and the FIRST motherfucking car out of the lot. I won. I am the best commuter in Cortlandt. I won the race. Maybe I'll let someone else win today. I don't know. I'm not adverse to wielding my power graciously, but one shove, one sideways glance from even one man in an overcoat with polished loafers, and I'm going to beat him. Again. Because I won yesterday.

When I told my parents this story, my mother responded, "My daughter. She's growing testicles." I wish my mother could've seen me dancing on the bar at the 'sco, or getting in a screaming match guy who looks like a bald, goateed refrigerator. The testicles descended a while ago, Mommy dearest, oh Mom of mine.

Every morning that I don't end up meeting Brian in the Grand Central 6 stop I walk the eight or so blocks to work alone. This is fine, because Spring Street is pretty great, and in the morning it's not filled with rich, shopping Italian tourists. There's a little old guy who sells the Daily News on the corner of Crosby and Spring. When I'm walking with Brian, he doesn't say anything. At the most, he might nod or smile. But, every single time that I'm alone, he says:


All one sentence, just like that. This wouldn't be so astounding, except for the fact that today I was wearing not only a skirt, but boots and pants underneath. Including my socks, there were no less than four layers of clothing seperating him from my legs, no part of which were visible to the human eye.

What is it with old men and me? I don't understand whether I have some old, old man attracting pheremone, or whether I just happen to consistently be in the wrong place at the wrong time with Viagra-crunching geriatrics. Just once, can't it be some wonderful, respectably-dressed, sanity-possessing guy around my age to mutter "HihowareyouIlikeyourlegs?" I don't feel like I'm asking for all that much.

Brandon Flowers has come out in Spin magazine. As a Mormon. It's really upsetting to learn that your heart, your love, your star-crossed soulmate is a secret religious zealot. I mean, I'll forgive him and I'll convert and everything, but damn, what a shock to my fragile constitution.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

mark my words, rassafrass, i'll bungle your plans.

3:56 PM  

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