Sometimes we pay too much attention to the feats of our celeb heroes–Derek Jeter’s 2,722 singles as a Yankee, Mark Sanchez’s surprisingly strong start to his Jets career–and not enough to the everyday Joes pulling off great feats of strength and fortitude.
Such as me making the 7:50 train after waking up at 7:30 this morning.
I had to get the early train–yes, poor me, the 7:50 is the early train–after the Boss suggested all his minions be at a conference. I did not set an alarm clock, because I have two very trusty flesh-and-blood alarm clocks in Little G and Little Miss C. When was the last time I slept past, oh, 7:15, was pretty much how my thinking went before turning in last night.
Indeedy, The Missus gave me a shake at 7:30 this morning.
“It’s 7:30,” she said. Before she finished the statement, I was in the shower.
I was out by 7:35, and dressed by 7:40–no minor accomplishment, seeing as I had to dress up a bit for the conference. (Of course, dressing up a bit–like the 7:50 being the early train–is relative.)
I offered a quick kiss to the clan, shook the dew from the morning’s Times, and climbed on my bicycle at 7:43.
The streets are definitely more clogged since school started; it’s actually kind of a drag. I was stuck behind a silver Honda at the corner of Bradhurst. The Honda waited for…just…the…right…moment before going, and I actually went around it and crossed Bradhurst before the car did.
Right about now, dear reader, if you enter the city each day from the upper reaches of the Harlem Line, you’re probably saying, “That so-called early train is a 7:52, not a 7:50.” And you’d be right. I take the thing so infrequently that I didn’t even know the real time it was supposed to arrive, giving myself two extra minutes that–for the record–I didn’t even need.
The train pulled up, me and a bunch of 7:52-type strangers got on, and we made that weird stop in Mount Vernon about 20 minutes later.
The 7:52-ers are definitely a more corporate bunch, but I’d like to think I fit right in with my dress shirt and necktie, which I was able to fasten from the comfort of an unclaimed 1-3/4 seater.
Hours later, back in the office, my co-worker–who splits his time between the Hudson and Harlem Lines, depending on his dog-sitter’s schedule–teased me about the tie.
“You can take it off now,” he said. “The conference is over.”
I told him I felt grown up in it, and looked forward to showing off the Grown Up TJ look to my fellow riders on the 5:46 home tonight.
A bit later, I ventured to the post office for stamps. The post office on 23rd and Lex took the stamp machines out about a year ago. I don’t know if the whole city did this, but it could go down as the most idiotic move in the history of idiotic moves. Whereas four or five machines once served the needers of stamps, those same fools must now stand on a line that counted about 50 people when I walked in.
Mercifully, a worker by the name of Stone ushered us needers of stamps over to a separate line. I asked Stone why the post office scrapped the machines.
“I only work here,” came Stone’s reply. Uh, thanks.
There was a woman behind me on the stamp line. She had straight blond hair, was about 45, and wore a blue pinstriped dress shirt and blue slacks–an outfit that would’ve worked equally well on a man. Certainly not unattractive, but everything about her screamed WASP.
She voiced some displeasure with the stamp line, and we briefly discussed the PO yanking the machines, much to the aggravation of customers, employees, everyone.
“Must be part of Obama’s socialism plan,” she said.
I stared at her, trying to follow the leap from A to B–or, in this case, A to Q.
I paid for my stamps, and, as is typically the case with me, thought of a half dozen snappy comebacks after I’d walked out of the post office. (Among the rejects: “Now, see, what you just said right there, well, that didn’t make any sense whatsoever.”)
Equally vexing, how did she end up identifying me as a friendly right-wing Barack-basher? Did three years in the suburbs really scrub any hint of counter-cultural funk from me?
I looked down and saw the answer: The necktie! The stupid necktie!
I ripped the thing from my neck like it was a boa and jammed it into my pocket.
glad you finally ditched the Yuppie noose.