Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Still, though.

I'm tapping my final days as a commuter on the shoulder, and I'm all but ready to give them the requisite goodbye hug and settle into a lifestyle where the subway alone is sufficent. Soon I'll be able to wake up at eight in order to get to work by nine, instead of hauling my ass out of bed at five to get to work by eight-fifteen, so I can leave by four-fifteen, all to get home at six-thirty. I'll miss the constant blog fodder the train provided, but that's about it. I was getting just a little bit sad about leaving the Metro-North behind this morning, until a man smashed into my foot and gave me a really nasty look. I mean, my fault. My foot had the audacity to be where his entire body needed to go. Y'know, which happened to be in the space designated for my feet, where any idiot knows not to put their stupid feet.

In a year I can't believe how little has changed with the people on the 5:12 express. One man did get braces--heartbreaking, shiny, silver braces on his middle-aged teeth. And the woman with the strange, floorlength Oscar the Grouch coat disappeared; I later found out she was a Danish jewelry designer and totally rolling in it. While I've gone through three hair colors and at least eight purses, worn everything from a Journey t-shirt to a full suit, and lost two iPods, the business men and women of the 5:12 seem to photocopy their days. I'm not being judgmental or superior, because I think their approach makes sense when four hours of your day is spent getting to and from a place where your time is completely not your own. Maximum efficiency can be gained through minimal change; while I spend twenty minutes in the morning trying to figure out what I'm going to wear, Braces knows he'll wear the gray suit because it's Wednesday and gets to sleep half an hour longer. Which means he probably got to stay up half an hour later the night before watching the Daily Show with his wife, who I have heard is pregnant. Way to go, Braces.

But still, I could sketch you their complete wardrobes, show you where they sit and what they're still reading (the woman who sits across the aisle has been working on Lonesome Dove for a solid six months) and name their beer of choice (MGD for the big guy who snores, Coors Light for his really skinny friend). I know that the woman with the long black hair wears white sneakers on Fridays, which is the only article of clothing she will wear that isn't black. Surprisingly, though, her iPod is pink.

It's all been virtually the same since last October, when I started taking the train and strategizing how to steal the seat next to the one hot dude.

Who is, I suppose, my dangling narrative thread. The Hot Dad grew from "that guy across the aisle," to "that guy who sat with me once, holy crap," to "that guy who talks to me about books," to "that guy who's screaming in the background of that voicemail I left you, sorry," to "that guy whose band I saw, and his lead singer was very cute, so I guess the original guy isn't that exiting anymore." Still, though, y'know?

I broke it to him yesterday that I'll be moving in about a weekish, and he must've said "wow," and "man," at least six times apiece while looking at the floor in a way I would describe as "sort of dejected" if it didn't sound so stupid and conceited. Still, though. Y'know? I think the fucker's grown kind of fond of me, and now he's going to be all by his lonesome once again on a train full of people who don't wear jeans or Converse All-Stars (with toe holes) completely inappropriately to the office. I picture many of them relaxing in some sort of loafer. I have trouble believing they own sneakers at all.

Unless we're talking about a whole company, which some of them very well could.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

I'll bet Hot Dad was just about to leave his wife for you, too. You BLEW IT, Kathy.

2:43 PM  

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