The expression "Packed Like Sardines" always made me a bit queasy. First of all, Sardines are gross. I myself have never enjoyed this delicacy, but my image of how they must taste based on what they look like is enough.
This morning on the train, this image came back to me. Anyone who lives east of Manhattan, knows that the L Train is the worst train ever created.
Whenever it rains, the train just seems to stop. I'm not sure if Brooklyn is notorious for rampant tunnel floods from an inch of rainfall, but the L Train must be the wussiest train ever created. Don't be fooled by its sleek design and sassy robot announcements. This train most certainly does not mean business.
I waited for thirty minutes on a humid platform for the third train to roll by that wasn't crowded enough to force myself onto. When I finally did, I found myself riding the width of Manhattan convincing myself that a panic attack was not a cool thing to have on a morning commute. I'm not quite sure why New Yorkers get the rap of being a cold and cruel people...we share everything.
Months ago after a failed yoga attempt following a stupid day on the job, I found myself absurdly crying on the train back home. No headphone melody could soothe away the bitter disappointment I felt after my awful day. Every single person who glanced in my direction felt my pain and sincerely consoled me with a knowing nod.
Cut to this morning. I wanted to slice apart every single stinky unwashed, unkempt, breakfast snacking, newspaper reading Brooklynite that ever shoved themselves onto an L train. I wanted to throw elbows, smash my bottle of unrefrigerated salad dressing onto their pierced faces and run into the tunnels screaming, "You stinky yuk mouths! I'm just trying to get to work!"
Now would be the time to figure out how to be a millionaire so that one may afford a cab ride to work. No such luck. Perhaps I need to push for free showers in the ladies room instead.
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