I used to think that it was not difficult in the slightest to ride the metro. You descend into the depths of the earth, standing on the right and walking on the left. You make sure that your enormous Prada bag carrying your shiny black pumps (or your man purse, hereafter referred to as a murse. Take note.) is close to your personhood so as not to take out the people who don’t want to stare at the back of your head. If you do not possess a pre loaded card, you then approach the machines, follow the directions there for your convenience, and purchase the appropriate fare in a timely fashion. If someone is behind you and you have been standing there long enough to hear a train arrive and depart, you are taking too freaking long. The person behind you is liable to punch you in the back of the head, and it be socially acceptable. After purchasing your card, you approach the nearest gate-thing, without cutting anyone off, insert card, remove card, and descend further into the land of the only kind of living and board your train. While waiting for, boarding and riding the train you look at no one. You speak to no one. This is not a book club, this is the metro. Everyone else is thinking of their own issues and problems in life, and chances are, their paychecks depend on it. Therefore, when you awkwardly smile at the hot little yuppie across the aisle, don’t get your feelings hurt when she puts her sunglasses on. This is a behavior that you should label as “unfriendly” and “not receptive” and cease contact.
But none of this, NONE of this is more offensive than what I am about to describe to you. The other day, I navigating my little web browser to 2birds1blog.com, a blog written by my girl-crush who I have never in my life met but totally aspire to be as funny as, Megan McBlogger. (Obvi not her real name, please for your dignity’s sake, tell no one if you thought it was.) I don’t read her regularly like I used to, this whole working thing has really taken a toll on my sloth, but I browse her archives and typically find something wonderfully hilarious and valid. Yesterday, she described to me what is known as the MPL, or the Metro Pole Leaner. I cried laughing at her accounts of interaction with this species, but noted that I had never myself been a victim to it.
In accordance with the Laws of My Life, I boarded the train this morning and instantaneously became critically aware of the frustration that is the MPL. I’m holding this pole, right, literally feeling the germs move beneath my once clean hand. It’s slimy and it’s metal, who know that was even possible. People shift around, and suddenly I’m aware of a small spine running into my knuckles. What. The. Hell. Some little tiny tourist child is subjecting me to The Lean. Not only is this annoying, but I can’t even strategically pull her hair that is shedding and just existing all over my person because her stupid mommy is standing next to me. I glared, but typical Tourist Mom has no clue. I tried digging my knuckles into her spine, nothing. I cleared my throat angrily nothing. I put a hex on her, didn’t budge. Finally, I conceded to moving MY hand uncomfortably high on the pole because I was rapidly becoming at risk for kiddie-touching as she proceeded to lean even more of her tiny little self against the pole. So much self restraint was exercised today, I can’t even believe it. Pat on the back, self, pat on the back.