Context: This isn’t a date story. So, sorry if you were expecting tales of me toiling hopelessly across the table from some numbskull with a striking ability to look nothing like his photos and stammer awkwardly while I attempt to gorge myself on free food without leaving crumbs and grease stains on every inch of myself and those around me (I’m dainty AF, thank you). That story will (maybe?) come tonight, because I’m being bullied into going on a Hinge date right after work. No, dear readers, this story is MUCH worse.
Ahh, the Metro. Both the savior and the bane of every Washingtonian’s existence. We love it because it gets us where we need to go, but we hate it because it very rarely does this a) comfortably and b) on time. A few examples:
- I get to the metro every day around 6 AM to head to my gym before I need to be in the office. Yeah, I’m awesome and dedicated and fit etc. please hold your applause to the end. Yesterday I got to the metro at 6 as usual, and the next Silver line was AN HOUR AWAY. Trains are supposed to run every 8ish minutes!! I was like HELL NAW and stormed off in a huff, shoving aside small children and occasional hobos on the way to my car.
- I was going on my 2nd date with Mr. Hottie McPerfectMan, and needed to get to his apartment, which is just a hop, skip, and a 45-minute-metro-ride-with-a-line-transfer away (ouch). I was wearing a scarf and a North Face because it was a chilly day, but the Metro was BOILING HOT. I started stripping (luckily there were lots of poles to set the mood), and I still felt like I was going to vomit the whole time. This is how I like to start all my dates.
I swear this is going somewhere… bear with me. This morning I was headed to work at our DC office, which is close to the Metro Center stop, so I headed down to the Metro. One car came by in 4 minutes, and was PACKED. Like, my pinky finger, or the teeny tiny Asian woman next to me, could probably fit on it. I have no plans to part with my extremities any time soon, so the woman slid her way onto the train.
The next train was in 10 minutes, and I spent the intermission watching the “THIS IS SPARTA” YouTube video on repeat to psych myself up for battle. When the train pulled up, I was out for blood. I elbowed my way in, swung my bag around, stabbed a man with my stiletto heel, and made my way onto the train. Victory is mine.
Next stop, Courthouse. Doors open, I bare my teeth at all who dare enter, and WHO would walk on but the guy I used to date, who things ended very, very badly with last month. Oh, no. Of all the trains and all the cars in the whole WMATA system, how did you end up here, packed into me and all the others on this train like a little sardine? Are you there, God (or wine)? It’s me, J.
Now, I’m a really nice person (and obviously a humble one to boot), so I played Little Miss Cordial with my ex-lover.
J: Hey, B! How are you doing?
B: I never, ever want to speak to you. Ever. Again. *puts in headphones and looks away*
I also must mention that, in this teeny crowded Metro car, noise travels PRETTY WELL. So now I have hundreds of eyes on me, wondering what I could have possibly done to this man to deserve such treatment. I’m innocent!! Please believe me! Sanctuary!
Now, I’m not going to say I pussied out, but I pussied out. I stayed on for one Metro stop and then got off at Foggy Bottom to make the 1.5 mile walk to the office. I was NOT dealing with that, and it was a beautiful day. I texted all my friends to let them know about my hardships, and got some supportive responses:
- “Your life is a sitcom. I don’t even understand. Like, ‘Friends’ has nothing on you.”
- “Wow, you definitely win the ‘worst morning’ award”
- “Sorry, new phone, who’s this?”
I need to move to Antarctica.