1. I play a Stupid Game that occasionally results in me laughing to myself maniacally like a cartoon villain, much to the consternation of those in the immediate vicinity.
So, this past weekend, I'm on my way to work at Coobah. Just like every other weekend, I head out the door of my apartment to the Western Brown line stop at a pace just above a walk and just under a run, because, just like every weekend, I've left the house with little time to spare. Fortunately, the Brown line is not long in coming.
Here commences the drama: the train starts to pull into the station and I ready myself. I only have a few seconds. I keep my face casual, but my body taut and ready for action. I'm already at the eastern end of the platform; this is the best position from which to achieve my objective. As the train pulls in to the station I have to decide quickly whether to get into the back of the second car or the front of the third car. I hesitate for a moment as the train settles to a stop and the doors slide open. No time to wait! Doors closing! I have to decide now! Without further deliberation, I quickly enter the front of the third car and take a seat facing that door.
The ride is short. A mere 7-9 minutes from Western to Southport. As the train pulls into the Southport stop, I stand and prepare for the moment of truth. I position myself directly in front of the door through which I had entered such a short time ago. I could, if necessary, quickly move towards the door at the rear of the car, but I stick to my original decision. It's the front door of the third car or bust. Back at the Western stop I'd made a call, now all I can do is wait and see if I made the right one. I'm ready for the moment in which my mettle will be proved. Do I have the stuff it takes to....the train stops. The doors slide open. I step down onto the platform directly in front of the exit stairs. I have won! Goddamit I've won!
Not only have I arrived at Southport in the closest possible train car to the exit stairs, I have actually exceeded all expectations and arrived right in front of the stairs. Right. In front. Of the stairs. Between the stairs and myself there is nothing but a foot or two of platform. I am Queen!
Oh, poor woman who must backtrack from the front car to get to the stairs. How worthless it must feel to take those extra steps back over ground the train had already passed. Better luck next time sucker! Oh, guy who's walking aaaaalllll the way from the very last car to get to the exit stairs...boy, you really blew it huh? Wow. That was a poor choice on your part, did you really think that the last car was the way to go? Amateur. Learn from a true master, you neophyte cta riders. Observe my excellence and marvel! Mwhahaha Mwahaha!!!
And this, friends, is why I will never in my whole life be cool.
2. I look at people's shoes...and I judge those people.
I deeply enjoy looking at people's shoes while on the train. It's a bit of a fixation. When a person has the taste to choose an excellent pair of shoes and the grace to proudly wear those shoes in public I feel that person should be respected. I might not know anything else about that man or woman, but I can respect the manner in which they choose to present their feet to the world. If we chance to make eye contact, I will probably give that person a subtle nod that says "you, friend, you know what shoes to wear."
When, on the other hand, a person's choice of footwear leaves something to be desired, I tend to become rather agitated and distressed on that person's behalf. For instance, I am frequently frustrated when women wear bright, white athletic shoes with their work attire. Especially if a woman is, say, wearing a skirt suit with black tights and then has decided that her shiny, white, extra cushioned New Balance aerobics shoes are just the thing to wear on the way to work. I get a little upset. I mean, I get it--I get that if you have to take cta and walk to the train and your work shoes are probably uncomfortable and it's better for your feet to wear the sneakers blah, blah.
But, my dears, when you are on the train you are still in public (this also holds for those who choose to wait until they are on the train to apply eyeliner, brush their hair, or clip their fingernails--the train does not magically become your bathroom just because you got up late). People can still see you. I can still see you and I judge you dear fellow train-riders. I judge.
There are comfortable shoes you could change into post-work that would go better with your outfit than those jazzercize shoes. I swear to you, there are a number of options that would do more justice to, well, to all of us really.
Also, and this goes out to both men and women, Crocs are not shoes. Please make note. Thank you.
Now, before I expose the empty, cold, judgmental shallows of my soul any further I will end discussion of this topic by saying that it's not all about judging people based on their shoes. Some of my fixation involves, pure, simple pleasure: I like to look at men's dress shoes. I just really like to look at them a lot, all judgment aside. I will stare at a sharp pair of well-polished leather dress shoes for the whole damned train ride. If the neatly hemmed cuff of a well-tailored pant hangs at just the right point above those shoes...ladies and gentlemen...I might just miss my stop.
3. I listen to the conversations of tweens, because as much as I find tweens on the train to be one of the great scourges of our society, they can also be pretty damned hilarious when they aren't stepping on my shoes.
Example of tween conversation #1:
Tween A (sitting behind me, can't see her very well): ....SO anyWAY, he TOTALLY thought I was 21!
Tween B (sitting next to me, turned around so she can talk to her friend. She periodically thwacks me with her backpack as she adjusts in her seat. She looks not a day over 15): So, how old are you?
Tween A: I'm sixteen!
Tween B: I'm sixteen too, but people TOTALLY think I'm, like, 24 ALL the time.
Tween A: Oh my god!
(conversation then dissolves into a series of high-pitched squeaks halfway between a giggle and a squeal. This is a sound that I feel is unique to tweenaged girls. It is clear at the least that no other living creatures make that sound--not even bats. As for the unholy dead, who can say what sounds they emit as they languish in purgatory? Perhaps they squeak and giggle in order to better torment the living. )
Example of Tween conversation #2 (this one actually took place in the H&M dressing room, but it could have just as easily been on the train)
Tween A: So, Billy** was all like, saying he was going to fail 8th grade ON PURPOSE just so that he could still go to school with me next year!
Tweens B, C, and possibly D: (chorus of) OH my GOD! I can't believe it! (din of aforementioned squeal-giggle)
Tween A(with obvious pride in her voice): I KNOW, isn't that CRAZY!!! But, I told him not to do it, because, it would like, totally RUIN his life. I mean, he'd have to take the tests to get into high schools all OVER again and then he probably wouldn't even get into a good college!!!
Tweens B, C and possibly D: (assorted sounds that eventually rise to a pitchedness so high as to only be discernable by dogs and other animals)
Oh, Tween A, you are truly wise beyond your years.
**names have been changed to protect the innocent--and also because I can't really remember.
4. I try to guess which guys on the train are going to be posting missed connections later and for which women, or men.
Yes, I confess I read the Craigslist Missed Connections on a fairly regular basis. Just how regular is that basis? Dear reader, my ladylike discretion and natural sense of shame prohibit that I answer that question; "fairly regular" will have to do. I enjoy the Missed Connections from an academic perspective, but let's be honest, I look both to see if I've been Missed Connected and because sometimes they're kind of funny.
Anyhow, regardless of why I read them or how often, the fact stands that a large percentage of these Missed Connections take place on public transit. One frequently sees posts along the lines of the following:
You: Red hair, beautiful green eyes, wearing a blue coat and reading Cat's Cradle on the Brown Line last night. Me: The guy sitting across the aisle from you pretending to read The New Yorker; really I couldn't take my eyes off of you. I should have said something. I know this is a long shot, but if you read this, coffee sometime?
I am deeply curious about who would make such a post. Therefore when I am not looking at a man's shoes on the train, I am often creepily looking at his eyes to see if he is wistfully/furtively looking at someone else. I wonder about the women as well, but tend to wonder about the men more since I usually read the m4w missed connections. There really isn't anything more to say about this particular amusement, other than to mention that one of the best "Missed Connections" I ever read went something like this (this is an abbreviation and paraphrasing that does no justice to the original post, but the last line is pretty much verbatim):
Me: I'm new to the city and just looking to meet some nice girls to hang out and have fun.
I'm tall and athletic.
I would survive a zombie invasion.
Since reading that post, it has become an additional, minor, cta amusement to wonder who would and who would not survive a zombie invasion. Think about it sometime. It's fun.
5. I panic a little bit.
Examples:
--I see that wretched new ad they have in some of the train cars now that says, all cheery-like, "Bedbugs are back!!! Find out what you can do to protect your mattress!"
I panic.
--I realize that the rather large dude sitting right over there has snot all up in his mustache and doesn't seem to realize it.
I panic.
--The train stops right in the middle of the freaking bridge over the river and the lights go out.
I panic.
----A dude lights up a crack pipe right there in the aisle without the slightest attempt to conceal what he's doing.
I panic.
--An older woman pops a squat and starts to pee right there on the train, while it's moving. I sit mesmerized and awkwardly focus on the ads posted along the ceiling. Guy sitting across from me says, "Hey, you might want to lift up your feet." I look down to see a rivulet of urine rapidly approaching.
I panic (and I lift up my feet).
6. I listen to snatches of businessmen's conversations.
For some reason I am ridiculously amused by the conversations of businessmen--but only in brief bits. So, not if I'm waiting on a table of businessmen and have to hear it over the course of a whole lunch, or heaven-forbid, if I actually find myself in conversation with one and have to listen to a bunch of stuff about...whatever... for more than 1 minute. But, I am very, very much amused when I overhear bits like "I TOLD him to move the funds to X account!" as I walk past someone on the train platform. Or "McCloughlin's a real piece of work, huh? I couldn't believe he said that to Goldworth's face," "The client really fucked us over on that one, I'm going to have to call Miami about it" "Always. Be. Closing." etc, etc.
Because I myself am so removed from the world of business-- living in a hippy-dippy world of rainbows, tofu, and poetry as I do--pretty much any little bit of conversation I overhear from suited types tickles my fancy. It's a little bit as though one were to see a reality tv star in real life. It's not like you're seeing someone really big like Angelina Jolie or Johny Depp, but it's still a little bit exciting. "Oh, hey, it's that one chick from Rock of Love/The Bachelor/Survivor! Neat! She doesn't/does look as scary and orange in real life!" With the suits it's kind of like, "hey! Business guys say stuff like that in the movies and those real life guys sound kind of like that! Neat! They aren't quite as good looking in real life!"
I am particularly delighted if the suits in question do any of the following: refer to people by last names; mention the words and phrases "moving assets," or "capitalizing on investments"; light cigars; give instructions to their secretary over the phone; curse emphatically.
I always want to clap my hands like a little kid and say "ooo! ooo!Do it again!"
7. Hmm. There isn't really a seven I guess. Ending a list with six things just seems kind of weird. Number seven could be sleeping I guess? I do that on the train a lot. Not really as a form of amusement I guess--just as something that happens. Sometimes I pretend I'm texting people just to look occupied? I don't know, any ideas?
