Twenty Two Minutes

It takes me five and a half minutes to walk to the train station every morning, six if the traffic lights aren't on my side. It takes twenty-two minutes on the train to get to work. It takes another six minutes to walk from the train station to work.

Add on another half minute if I'm wearing shoes, take a half minute if I'm barefoot.

If I manage to get a seat, it's twenty-two minutes of staring awkwardly at the signs above people's heads, out the window, or at my i-pod, pretending I'm reading a lot more than just the title of the song. Generally I stand near the door, and spend twenty-two minutes trying desperately to regain my balance and not fall over, gripping the jacket of the man in front of me.

These twenty-two minutes pass by with little consequence, unless I fall over, or a strange man licks my shoulder (true story), or a homeless man steals my half eaten apple (also, true story).

Twenty-two minutes isn't particularly long, I know, and I should be glad that by spending twenty-two minutes on the train I am helping the environment, saving money, and most important, missing peak hour in traffic. However the twenty-two minutes does drag on when I am literally surrounded by couples.

Directly across from me this morning, a man and a woman in freakishly matching suits were holding hands in that delicate, soft-touched way, where you know they had epic sex the night before and were still feeling all lovey-dovey. They were going between gazing into each others eyes, and looking smugly at everyone else on the train.

To the right of me, a boyish looking guy was chatting to a kind of scary looking blonde girl. Perhaps she scared me just because of the weird crab claw/death grip thing her hand was doing on his knee, or perhaps it was the angry twitching glares she gave me, but either way, kudos to the boy. You tame that shrew, slugger.

To the left of me, two middle aged lesbians were making out, complete with slurps, smacks, and giggles.

And there I was, on my own. What a lewwwwwser, right?

INCORRECT, MY FRIEND.

Here is the reason why:

Should the train stop at a particular stop, and a particular person comes on (who that person is, I still haven't decided. Will it be the blonde guy from Off Ya Tree? Will it be some undiscovered screamo guitarist? Will it be the footballer from my afternoon train? I still haven't figured out who plays the Westley to my Buttercup in my increasingly elaborate day dream), I will be sitting pretty surrounded my the lustful pheromones of the blissful lovers around me, and the poor blonde guy/guitarist/footballer/insert fella (with or without an umbrella) here will have no choice but to succumb to peer pressure and run away with me. But only for a little while, I have to work at nine, and stomach butterflies do not pay the bills, although they tend to keep my appetite to a minimum, thus buying less food, thus saving money, so maybe they do pay other bills.

Anyway, the fact is, that The Train Luvahhhhs are already stuck. They don't get to have new adventures with lovely strangers on the train. I do. So I win, right? Right.

But gosh, wouldn't it be lovely to have someone distract me for twenty-two minutes in the morning? Especially if they were actually real, and not some elaborate and ultimately unsatisfying figment of my imagination.

Until then though, it's a good way to spend twenty-two minutes.