Let me state, for the record. I am not a morning person. If it were up to me, the workday would start and noon and end at 8pm. I like, love, enjoy, cherish my sleep. I requre a full 10 hours to feel my absolute best - and that rarely ever happens.
I hate waking up in the morning. I hate rolling out of bed after 5 snoozes (as it was the case) on my iPhone alarm. I hate stumbling to my bathroom, groggily brushing my teeth, washing my face, and being so tired that I can't even muster up energy to put on a layer of Make Up For Ever foundation. Even worse, I hate morning after morning, sleeping too late to make coffee before I walk out the door, leaving my morning commute caffeine-less. Even worse is mornings like this morning, where my commute takes a whopping two hours.
For those who don't know me, I live in Cambridge. About 25 minutes of walking and subway riding from the middle of downtown Boston. 25 minutes is a manageable commute. I love my commute actually. I read the Metro. I listen to the new Britney Spears album on my iPhone. I look at my reflection in the window of the red line and green line subways. I occasionally have a cigarette before I hop on the subway (no caffiene means I need some sort of savior to get my day started). And that was my commute today until I felt an unnecessarily and unusually forceful jolt.
My green line train died. Disabled. Whatever you want to call it. It wasn't moving anywhere, anytime soon. I'm packed onto a train, tighter than a can of sardines, and I realize that I'm going to be late for work. And not just late, really late. As in, I probably shouldn't take a lunch break kind of late. To top it off, as MBTA workers tried to revive my dead subway car, it jolted forward six inches, and then richoeted back. Ouch. That was a heel that juat poked my UGG boot. Ouch, that was a elbow to my head. Thank you everyone. I know you're angry Bostonians (after all, remember Ben Affleck's quote, "The Boston accent is more of an attitude than an accent. Underneath everything you say has to be the attitude of: You're an asshole, I know better than you, fuck you."), and I am too, but can we not cause physical injury while I'm trying to just stand and sit there. Claustophobic. Trying to not jump out of the window.
Obviously, I eventually made it to my office, at 9:30am. But MBTA, why do me wrong like this? I've been a loyal T rider since I was thirteen (even younger, if you count all those trips into the city with Mom and Dad). Red line. Blue line. Green line. Every color of the rainbow line. You've never died on me before, and now that you have, you've caused me such agony this morning. I pay you 60 bucks a month out of my paycheck for my T pass to get me wherever I need to go. Can you not let me down like this again? Pretty please? Because although I do need to get around somehow, I can think of other ways to spend sixty bucks every four weeks.
-M
I hate waking up in the morning. I hate rolling out of bed after 5 snoozes (as it was the case) on my iPhone alarm. I hate stumbling to my bathroom, groggily brushing my teeth, washing my face, and being so tired that I can't even muster up energy to put on a layer of Make Up For Ever foundation. Even worse, I hate morning after morning, sleeping too late to make coffee before I walk out the door, leaving my morning commute caffeine-less. Even worse is mornings like this morning, where my commute takes a whopping two hours.
For those who don't know me, I live in Cambridge. About 25 minutes of walking and subway riding from the middle of downtown Boston. 25 minutes is a manageable commute. I love my commute actually. I read the Metro. I listen to the new Britney Spears album on my iPhone. I look at my reflection in the window of the red line and green line subways. I occasionally have a cigarette before I hop on the subway (no caffiene means I need some sort of savior to get my day started). And that was my commute today until I felt an unnecessarily and unusually forceful jolt.
My green line train died. Disabled. Whatever you want to call it. It wasn't moving anywhere, anytime soon. I'm packed onto a train, tighter than a can of sardines, and I realize that I'm going to be late for work. And not just late, really late. As in, I probably shouldn't take a lunch break kind of late. To top it off, as MBTA workers tried to revive my dead subway car, it jolted forward six inches, and then richoeted back. Ouch. That was a heel that juat poked my UGG boot. Ouch, that was a elbow to my head. Thank you everyone. I know you're angry Bostonians (after all, remember Ben Affleck's quote, "The Boston accent is more of an attitude than an accent. Underneath everything you say has to be the attitude of: You're an asshole, I know better than you, fuck you."), and I am too, but can we not cause physical injury while I'm trying to just stand and sit there. Claustophobic. Trying to not jump out of the window.
Obviously, I eventually made it to my office, at 9:30am. But MBTA, why do me wrong like this? I've been a loyal T rider since I was thirteen (even younger, if you count all those trips into the city with Mom and Dad). Red line. Blue line. Green line. Every color of the rainbow line. You've never died on me before, and now that you have, you've caused me such agony this morning. I pay you 60 bucks a month out of my paycheck for my T pass to get me wherever I need to go. Can you not let me down like this again? Pretty please? Because although I do need to get around somehow, I can think of other ways to spend sixty bucks every four weeks.
-M
