The Train

I realize that if I post too much in one day, or in one week, you will probably stop reading every post. I would say that I do not care, but that would be a lie. I DO care. I'm pretty sure I want people to read every post. I want a lot of people to read. I wanna be heard maybe? I need a witness? Maybe. Maybe I just like to entertain. Whatever the case, I know myself well enough to know that I go through obsessive phases of doing things hardcore, like staying up all night to read a book, or running 75 miles in one month, or blogging an average of 3 times a day. Go big or go home they say, right? I mean, you should have expected this from the girl whose response to the Mercer BSU's mission week about the 10-40 window her sophomore year of college was to work with Chinese people for the next 9 years of her life. 


Anyway, with that said, here is ANOTHER update from today...about...THE TRAIN. :) (If all else fails, I know I entertain Libby).


I was on my way back from counseling, having just poured my heart out to my counselor, who listened, witnessed, validated, and made me feel like less of a freak for being affected by some of the things I've been affected by. We talked about God's perspective, how He sees it, identified some things. Completely worth the money, counseling that is. I don't know how I'd get by without it. And it's gotta be biblical based counseling, but that's another tangent for another time- BACK to THE TRAIN.


So the train ride starts off with me swiping my/Jesse's metro card which I know has around $4.30ish cents on it b/c I definitely remember seeing 4.3 when I swiped it to GO to counseling. I can't remember the number that came after the 3, but I definitely remember the 4 dot 3. Well the first message the kind turnstile gave me was "Swipe Again At This Turnstile." Hmm. Okay. I waited the necessary 3 seconds or so for the screen to clear, (which we all know feels like 5 minutes when there is a rushed, impatient New Yorker standing behind you, growing to hate you more and more with every millisecond), and I swiped again. This time the turnstile said "Swipe Again." It did not say "At this turnstile," so I gave up on THAT turnstile (mainly because I was scared of said rushed New Yorker behind me and don't like being hated) and went to the turnstile next to me. WRONG decision. I swiped my card, and THIS time the turnstile decided to declare to me that I had "Insufficient Fare." WHAT? THE NERVE! I DO NOT! But a las, there is no arguing with a silver machine, and there was no person around; thus, I lugged myself over to the MTA ATM METROCARD PURCHASING thingie to fill up my card, mumbling and grumbling like a jaded, bratty child who had just had her candy taken away or something because HER BROTHER wouldn't quit whining or something. 


When I put my card in, it said I only had $1.80 left on it. I know that's a lie. What happened to the rest of the money? The 4 dot 3ISH? I HAVEN'T A CLUE, except that the MTA stole it. That's what happened. They took it. $2.25 at least. I expect Uncle Jimmy to have that in hand on Sunday, and I do not want a check either. 


ANYWAY, I got my card filled up and made my way down to the train. I managed to get down there JUST in time to see the train leave. I started to get angry until I realized it was the M. I didn't need the M. I've made THAT mistake before. I wanted the F, so I stuck in my headphones and jammed away to Adele and waited. End of story, right?


Wrong.


I waited...


and waited...


10 whole minutes, and the train didn't come, and so I looked up from my downward trance at the sewer rats and dirty cups only to discover I was on waiting for the DOWNTOWN F! That train probably only runs like every 15 minutes during the day. HELLO WORLD? HOW LONG HAVE I LIVED IN NEW YORK? Apparently not long enough to know how to take the train yet. Ugh, so I turned my little self around and climbed back up the stairs, all the way around, and back down the stairs to the UPTOWN F. Gracious. I figured that would be the end of my adventure. Little did I know, it was JUST getting started.


When the F train arrived, I figured I'd get a good seat because I was right up near the front, but the train didn't even get to where I was. It stopped like halfway down in the station, so I had to walk down to it, and by the time I got there, most of the seats were taken, except for one which of course we let an elderly lady have. I moved myself over to the corner by the doors and proceeded to listen to my Adele while watching a tiny Asian toddler talk with her mother and oddly enough nod and shake her head for about a full minute ON BEAT to the song to which I was listening. That in itself would be enough to make the ride a memorable one. 


When we stopped at 42nd street, the elderly woman's vacated her seat, and she raised up to make her way out the door. People began to enter, and I momentarily thought about taking her spot, but I didn't have time to because that's when these two GIGANTIC GROWN MEN proceeded to FIGHT over the seat and push each other out of the way and try to sit on TOP of each other until one finally gave up. I was shocked, like dumbfounded, and standing with my mouth open (much the way I looked when Jordan announced Christina and Matt's elopement), when the train decided to move again and I completely lost my balance and fell. Great. 


So standing back up, I managed to make my way back to the corner by the doors and leaned up against them while thinking mean thoughts about these men who were NOT Southern gentlemen at ALL. I mean obviously. They weren't Southern, and from their behavior, they were not gentlemen, so I should not be surprised. Do not model this behavior if you want to be a Southern Gentlemen Richard Moy. A Southern Gentleman would  never make the lady with Vertigo symptoms who falls on her butt when the train moves stand by the door. Well, I suppose they couldn't know I have Vertigo symptoms. Whatever.


I was hoping, at this point, the previous events were the climax of my train ride, but, fortunately for you readers, or perhaps unfortunately, they were not. The next interesting event occurred around Lexington Avenue when a man entered the train who looked maybe Pakistani? I'm not sure. I would say he looked Indian, but I got in trouble the other day for saying that. I don't know. He was Middle-Eastern? But he was not just ANY Middle-Eastern man. No sir-ree. THIS Middle-Eastern man had an orange beard. YES, my friends, a BRIGHT orange beard. While he sat with his eyes closed, I stared at that beard (but only when his eyes were closed), and when he took his hat off, I stared, (even more alarmed) at his bright orange hair that accompanied his beard. And I wondered, why did this Middle-Eastern man who was clad in an MTA uniform have bright orange hair and a bright orange beard? It's at this point that I thought "maybe he works two jobs." He obviously works for the MTA, a job that does NOT (I don't think) require orange hair, but he is sleeping on the train now, and if he works for the MTA, he must know that is not smart, so he's probably really tired, so he must moonlight at some kid's club as a clown or something, right? I mean, why else do you dye your hair and your beard bright orange? I don't get it. Thinking this made me feel sorry for him and how tired he must be and how embarrassed he must be, so I did not demand he pay me the money that his corporation stole from me earlier in the day. I'll let someone else handle that. This guy has enough to deal with.


As I was still looking at Mr. Orange Beard and starting to think about how he actually resembled the character from the Lucky Charms cereal box (even though that guy doesn't have a beard), I learned another important lesson. I learned the reason why that subway man always comes over the intercom and says "Stand Clear of the Closing Doors Please" and why that little sign says "Do Not Lean on the Doors." Apparently at the next stop, the doors opened on the side of the train that I had been leaning back on the whole time, and I was unaware, so as I stared at Orange Hair, the rest of the train stared at the girl who previously fell on her butt as she now fell backwards out the doors that opened on her as she was leaning on them. I will pause so that you can picture that and laugh an appropriate amount. 

..........

There. That's enough.

Well, no biggie. I'm woman-enough to pull this off. I'm wearing my puma's today. I can steady myself. I somehow managed some type of composure and walked back onto the train and braced myself for the sudden movement of the train lurching forward in motion again, but apparently it is just impossible to prepare yourself for that lurch or the lurch of the train stopping for that matter. No matter how much I try to steady myself, I always shift around. It's like my presence on any train is for the sheer amusement of other riders. I should dye MY hair orange.


So as all of this is happening, I start to think about how I'll have to blog about this when I get home, and I start to think about how great it would be if I could just blog 24-7 and get paid for it, get some ad agencies to advertise on my site or something and develop a REAL following. I could come up with categories that I blog under, like: Franklin, God, Everyday Life, Food and Crafts, Jirem. EVERYONE wants to read about those, right? RIGHT? And I could just be like a freelance artist who wrote all the time on her blog and then wrote songs and recorded them on YouTube (Except my camera on my computer doesn't work. It stopped working after I recorded like 7 songs on YouTube. I think it was a sign that I should stop embarrassing myself like that). And then I thought how people actually DO do that, and it's not a foreign concept, and then I thought that I'm too fickle in figuring out what to do with my life. I probably have a better idea now than I did 7 years ago, but I'm still not EXACTLY sure. Plus, if I did have this HUGE blog that took off, and if I was constantly having to write about my every day occurrences and come up with fun witty things to talk about, when would I ever have time to write my autobiography of my life story? (Oh wait, you didn't know that I secretly wanted to do that? Oh, yeah, oops. Nevermind). 


Somewhere during all of this, I also noticed that I had ran past all the last 10 stops of the F train at some point during my running explorations. I could almost say I'd ran past 11 except I didn't cross over the Roosevelt Island bridge to that F train stop. I just saw it in the distance. That revelation made me feel strong and accomplished.


Anyway, after all of that, I eventually made it home, planned some more on my lessons, and I typed all this up, and decided I'd wait till later to post it so that you'd have some time in between posts and not get too tired of me. 


Until next time, Happy Train Riding, and if you see Uncle Jimmy, warn him I'm coming.