Sunday, July 31, 2011

Gangs on trains. With bottles of vodka.

I've sort of had it, at this point.
No longer am I dancing happily in the living room, or gleefully proud of myself for each and every accomplishment. Right now, after a solid week of friends being too busy for me, (they do have lives after all, and I realize I sound pathetic that I want every one to drop everything, rush over here with some wine, a People magazine and a pizza- but I do. So there.) I have begun to fade in my resolve a bit. Friends always say: "Call me if you need anything." And I don't have the heart to respond with a teary: "BUT I NEED SO MUCH ALL OF THE TIME." The proper response for me is to say no-thank-you-how- lovely-of-you-but-no worries, when all I really want is a phone call from my front porch as a girlfriend has decided to come and spend the night with me badly painting our nails to an N'Sync album. But alas. I have spent the past week, staring at my walls, being brave.
Ok. Pity party over. Well, almost.
The other day I took a train in to the city and on the way home a group of guys boarded, clutching several 40's and a bottle of strawberry vodka. (I'm pretty sure they were a gang, but I say this timidly because I am aware of how WASP'y it makes me sound. But they were all wearing the same colors. Then again, they could have been coming back from a baseball game.) Anyway, it took them about 5 minutes to notice me and for one of them to yell out: "Hey! White girl!"

Let me just say I am pretty easy to spot on a train. Not because of my overwhelming beauty that is completely irresistible, but because I am usually staring straight at people since I lack basic tact. I cannot ever look away. If you look like a murderer, I will stare at you with wide eyes. If you are muttering to yourself, I will make direct eye contact. When I try to appear aloof, I usually end up doing something very weird that makes my inane plight to be incognito painfully obvious. I stare at the ceiling. I hold a book upside down while STILL STARING with one eye. I am such a creep. So, as I was staring at these very drunk, very imposing men, one noticed and started yelling. I got off of the train at the next stop. They followed. I got off again.
They continued to follow.

In all reality, I am sure they were harmless. They even offered me a swig of the vodka, but it being 2pm AND THEM BEING SCARY STRANGERS I politely declined by ignoring them whilst staring. Even if they were harmless, they were not giving up. I kept thinking that this would never happen if Brett was with me, but I had to shake that off. There was no time to panic. I could panic behind closed blinds later. I'm awfully good at that.

Long story short, I managed to shake them. One of the guys was so drunk he got stuck in the train doors and I was able to make a break for the sanity of a hobo commune above ground. And then, once I shook the hobos by tossing out dollar bills, I got in to my apartment, locked the door, called Brett and told him I was moving to be with him. I believe I said something like, "FUCKTHISPLACEIAMOUTOFHEREANDYOUCAN'TSTOPME!" You know, something really classy like that. He calmed me down to a point where my tears turned in to muffled, half-hearted snorts and I no longer felt so alone in the world. He is magical in that way.

The point of the story is this: life is hard. We can complain about it. Hopefully you have someone on hand to complain to with a People magazine in their hand to dry your tears. But, if you don't leave the drunk guys stuck in the train doors, and you let them attack you with strawberry vodka, it is your own fault.

Don't cry over what is missing. Celebrate the fact that you have someone to call, (even if you swear at them for the first 5 minutes.) We'll all get through this somehow.

It's all about the art of changing trains.

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