I work in Westchester County—and when it snows here—even if it's only 5 or 6 inches, we get a snow day. So for a day, I love Yonkers, better known as the armpit of Westchester, also known as "an unimaginable fate far worse than death."
Make no mistake, it's not the warm cinammon-sugar-flavored civility of suburban life that forces resentment into my heart during my 1-hour-plus trek to work everyday—it's my 1-hour-plus trek.
Oh the horrors of my smelly, claustrophobic commute. Today I had the divine pleasure of watching a teenage boy devour a greasy, fleshy pork bun in front of me. yum. Add the wondrous olfactory sensation of stale vitamin odor, which was very likely just old piss, and we've got a winner of an F-train ride today. We don't really need to mention the man who at this very moment is leaning over my shoulder watching me write this, or the guy sitting across from me with his knees spread so far apart, he's likely to give birth to his balls at any moment.
I get emotional and my left eye twitches a bit when I speak about my commute, and people who work on 34th Street or drive up the FDR to work don't get it. Three weeks ago I burst into my apartment in a fit of tears after a 300-pound Hasidic "gentleman" sat on me. Not next to me—but literally—ON me. After a shiteous day at my 9-to-5, Schlomo mistaking me for a Lazy Boy was the icing on my catastrophic cake.
Yet and still, the things I detest most about the almighty MTA on some days become the things I love on others. Like when the train car morphs into an elbow-to-elbow jam-packed tuna can and I get to hover 4 inches away from my morning-rush goth-boy crush, picturing what he might look like sans the long face and leather arm cuffs, and umm, naked. ahhh... Where was I? Oh yes...if all goes well tomorrow...oh nevermind...just buzz me when the snowmageddon starts...