Monday, October 27, 2003

I saw a woman the other day who hates the subway even more than I do. Everyone knew she was the one to watch when she got on at Queensborough Plaza, during the morning commute, and immediately sat down on the floor, her back against the pole.  She was about sixty or so, short and squat, with salt and pepper hair shorn into one of those crew cuts they give to the mentally disabled.  She was talking to herself.  You know the type.  Between Queensborough and Lexington Avenue, under the East River, the train stopped, as it often does, mornings.  No sooner had it begun to slow down that the woman cried “NOOOO!!!”  When it came to a stop, she started screaming “Fuck you!!!”, over and over.  Between fuckyous she beat the back of her head against the pole, hard. Now most of the passengers winced at the obscenities, and at the clunk of her skull on the metal.  That didn’t phase me at all – I was perfectly familiar with both.  Instead, I just thought, “Oh, honey.  You should try traveling on the weekends – you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” The other day I put on my winter coat for the first time.  I was already in a bad mood, because not only was it cold, but I was already thinking of the frustration of spending the next six months yanking my bag full of shit up onto my shoulder, only to have it slide back off again – this is one of the things I hate most about winter in New York.  But anyway, I divest the coat of its dry-clean plastic – I had taken it to the cleaners not only to get it cleaned, but also to get the buttons tightened, and to replace the hooks and eyes which keep the big honkin’ Mongolian wool sleeves in some kind of order.  Well, first I find a long hair dyed the bright red my hair was last winter – not the more subdued hue it is now.  So I’ve got my suspicions right off the bat.  Then I notice that the Mongolian wool at the sleeves and neck don’t seem to have been dealt with at all.  I took this coat to an extremely overpriced cleaner in the financial district specifically because I thought they’d be able to deal with the Mongolian wool.  I put the coat on.  The buttons have been tightened up, so that’s good, but when I go to adjust the sleeves, I notice that the hooks and eyes have not been replaced.  Which means I’m going to have to ride the subway with my bag falling off my shoulder AND my big flapping Mongolian wool sleeves getting in everybody’s faces. Now there was a time when I would have shrugged this off.  I would have humbly yet proudly turned the other cheek, said to myself, “well, these things happen,” felt the flow of generosity in my veins as I quietly, without fuss, took my coat and dry cleaning business elsewhere.  This was when I was a Texan.  But things are different now.  This time, I spent the entire subway ride rehearsing the nasty fit I was going to throw in the dry cleaner’s – the demands for recompense, the threats to out their shoddy business practices to the media.  I’ve got to get out of this city. I’m also dieting.  And not drinking – well, not much.  Which I hate – not because I’m hungry or I’m craving a drink, but because I’m not.  Have I become the kind of person who watches their carb intake and teetotals?  God, it’s like how Hemingway would feel if he suddenly, against all his instincts and will, took a job writing Hallmark cards.  I don’t want to be that kind of person.  But the “Gotta Be Pretty” need trumps all in the heart of a southern girl (and yes, I do believe I’m a southerner at heart, Texas roots notwithstanding, firmly in the O’Hara line.) In other news, I’ve got 20 days of work left, my life is going to start any day now, so I’ve got nothing to complain about, actually.  So I’ll shut up now. 7:57:51 AM    comment []