Maybe, YOU need to take a chill pill Pops!
It was a tough morning on the train.
The woman sitting next to me was a nervous wreck. She kept fidgeting and fiddling with all her toys including a laptop which she could not get to connect to the ether; an iPhone in a sequined case; a reading tablet; a green leather laptop bag; a fancy patent white leather handbag, and her eye glasses.
She kept shifting and adjusting and waiting for something to happen throughout the ride.
Dyed platinum blonde with a black leather motorcycle jacket, she looked like she was in her early fifties, desperately clinging to the first half of her life by throttling anxiously forward, attempting to make meaning through meaningless busy work.
It was hard to ignore her. Unlike most of our fellow passengers, who were either sleeping, quietly reading or simply pondering the day ahead, this hot potato was constantly moving, but seemingly accomplishing little. Ugh.
After the first couple of minutes of her spasms I wanted to tell her, "You sure are nervous," but decided it would probably make things worse or, at minimum, make things awkward for the next hour.
As we rolled into the mile-long tunnel into Grand Central she got ready to jump out of her seat. Poised, her knees began bouncing her bags and things as she tried to sit still, anxiously wondering when I would move out of my seat, so she could pass me.
Blondie sat up stiff and straight in her seat and was like a sentinel scrutinizing each person that was ahead of us, calculating and mentally pushing the lit elevator button. I could almost hear her mind pushing, "Come on everybody, move."
Meanwhile, I sat still and steady through the ride and slow inching into the station. The only things moving for me were my thumb composing this post and my eyes shifting occasionally to my left to catch a glimpse of what this lady was doing now.
A few minutes later, while I was walking down Park, a barely twenty-something version of Nelly stepped up to the curb next to me.
Taking the green light, she strode ahead of me and I noticed she wore practically the same exact outfit as the thorn who was at my side just ten minutes earlier: a short leather jacket, a cotton tee that hung past the dangling waist straps of her jacket and lithely covered her ass, tight black jeans, and the same ankle high leather boots. It was probably the same outfit that they both saw in last month's edition of whatever-fashion-magazine this girl was carrying.
The only difference were the models and how they wore their retro 80s outfit: the one without crow feet was a natural brunette, who wore her hair up in a sloppy bun and her boots untied, with tongue and laces dangling wild and free; her jacket was also unzipped and she seemed genuinely unconcerned about anything.
Perhaps, there is no good and positive or valid point with my scathing observation. All I really know was that I was annoyed, and writing about her simply makes me feel some sort of visceral redemption.
Perhaps, it is really I who needs to take a chill pill.
Tranquilo, Lorenzo
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