You are about 40, with flecks of gray in your close cropped hair and stubble. You wore a green polo shirt.
Despite not being on the cusp of entering second grade, there you were, a screen full of little blue people on your iPad, swinging some digital mallet to help the Smurfs build homes in their little village. (Uh, Habitat for Blumanity, perchance?)
The screen said, “Upgrade a Smurf house.”As you remotely swung that mallet, a Smurf looked on, supervising, a pencil behind his ear, grading your performance.
Man, you are too old, by several decades, to have a Smurf grade your performance.
What one does on the train each morning is one’s business. But if it’s within eyeshot/earshot of me, and it’s goofy, I’m gonna call you on it. And wasn’t part of you the slightest bit concerned that others would see you playing your little Smurfs game? Did self-consciousness never come into play? If not, in a weird way, I kind of admire you.
But not that much. After you swung that mallet with your pudgy fingers, the game called on you to shake up potions of different colors. This time, Papa Smurf looked on. (At least this time you were being graded by a tribal elder!) The potions were blue, and purple, and red, and green.
And how did you shake up the potions? You shook your entire iPad, like you were playing some fully interactive Wii game, or your child had gotten sand in your tablet at the beach.
Dude. Shaking the iPad to mix Smurf potions on the 8:16 train to the most sophisticated city in the world.
No. Read the Post. Watch “Breaking Bad”. Take a freakin’ nap.
But don’t play your little Smurfs game.
So not appropriate. So not cool.
So not Smurfy.