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Leaving the house to go to the opera. The adventure of it. Clutch (oh, lightly) the railing as you go down the steps. Look at the flowers and see the weeds--but still, look at the flowers. Here's the next set of steps. Railing. Sidewalk.
Dog-person coming. Flat-faced stupid dog. Don't be unkind. Cute doggie with humanoid face. That's better. Stop judging. Dog owner overdressed for the job: must be going off to work as soon as doggie poops.
Uneven sidewalk. Navigated it well even though ankle twisted a bit. Coulda been worse (our family motto). Delivery van coming. Will it stop at our house? More likely it's for the neighbours because deliveries are usually for them, not us.
Crowd of young people around the subway steps. Do they not have mothers? Do mothers no longer teach courtesy? Stop standing right beside the hand-rail, you idiots! Some of us have to use the rails. And may fall if we don't. I don't say such things aloud, of course, but my inner self screams quite loudly. If any of these louts has good ESP they'll hear it and wonder why the old lady is mutely yelling at them.
Probably no ESP in this group. Is the midriff really an attractive body part? Well, I guess if you want to show off your navel ring you have to bare the midriff. But still...
Lady with stroller at the top of the steps. I used to offer to help carry strollers down the subway stairs. I'd take the front end and the mommy could hold the handle. Now I don't even offer since I'd end up missing a step and we'd all tumble down like Humpty Dumpty, landing with stroller and baby on top of me. Broken bones all around. I feel like an insensitive brute when I walk right past but who wants a dumb conversation like "I'd help you if I were younger but just look at this decrepit self. Hope someone stronger comes along soon..."
Subway train arrives. Find a seat. Everyone's masked, thank goodness—and whip out the TLS that will last for this trip. Three seat-units away is a pair of middle-aged men, one of whom has a not unattractive but very loud bass voice. Mansplaining occurs. I thought that was man-to-woman, but apparently there's a version that's man-to-subordinate-man. He never stops talking, giving obvious and marginally offensive opinions on every topic of the day. Can I compete with this by reading an article on classic Greek architecture?
Shut him out. Reach the stop and—watch out, lady—don't cut in front of me—are you really in such a hurry?
As I walk south, a couple overtakes me, both wearing Sunday best. She's a fashionista, in her knee-length taupe wool coat, cocoon-shaped. Until she's walking ahead of me and I see the kick-pleat in the centre back. She's failed to remove the tacking at the bottom of the kickpleat and now I no longer see her as a fashionista. Or perhaps I'm so out of date that I don't recognize this as the latest thing—to leave in that tacking at the bottom and probably also to leave in the pocket-basting designed to keep the pocket from gaping as it travels from sweatshop to your back. Oh, I'm so out of the loop!
Wait. Where am I? I didn't know there was a curve here. Am I lost? Will I have to walk three blocks out of my way? Will I be late? Am I lost? No, there it is, beyond the curve. A familiar sight. I just keep going south. Am I late, though? Will I have time to pee before the opera starts? Anxiety, my faithful companion, enlivens every trip.
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
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