Each morning, the endless press of people jostling and jockeying for position on my morning commute makes me glad to be tall. Sometimes, I feel ten feet tall, striding along on epic, stilt-like legs. Like some strange, fashionable giraffe.
As the train pulls into Penn Station, most of the passengers stand up, waiting for the doors to open and I always just keep reading. You can’t go anywhere until the train stops and the doors open. They stand there while the train pulls slowly into the station, like they’re somehow going to get to work earlier by doing so.
Of course they won’t, and I really can’t figure out why they’d want to do that, anyway.
But they press forward anyway, surging with the rocking train and I feel like I’m in one of those landing craft on D-Day during World War II, ready to hit the beach as the front ramp drops and we all charge off into the withering hail of gunfire on our way to the office.
And there I am, sitting in the back, near the sergeant’s feet as he works his troops into a frenzy and tracers zip overhead, reading some pulp novel.
All of this makes me think I really need a house somewhere quiet and rural, with a big, old, claw-foot bathtub out on a deck overlooking the water. I can sit in the tub, feet sticking out into the evening air, sip cappuccino, and eat good cheese. Watch dragonflies zoom around my toes for a while before I go out to the garage and figure out why my vintage motorcycle won’t start.