Seriously

I got all serious over at PGS today.

Itinerant No More

This, my friends, is most assuredly the end of an era. For the first time in 16 years, I don’t own a car. (Okay, technically, for a lot of those years I didn’t own a car per se. Rather various lenders owned cars on my behalf.) In some ways this presents new-found freedom. I’m free from car insurance and repairs, and the justifiable-violence inducing need to find street parking three to four times a week.

But in so many ways, a piece of my freedom is gone. Having a car at my disposal made me feel so liberated, as though at the drop of a hat I could pick up and go anywhere. Not that I went around dropping hats or gallivanting about willy-nilly. But it was nice to know I could. Last minute trips are still possible, but will require a bit of planning and logistics. And shared space.

Owning a car is somehow so very American, and yet not owning one is so very New York. My identity is shifting with every passing day.

There’s Good; There’s Bad. I Hope There’s No Ugly.

The bad? It’s been way too long since I’ve posted here. The good? I posted over at The Peanut Gallery Speaks today.

What a Long Strange Trip it Was

Took a stab at talking about leaving my old job over at The Peanut Gallery today. Feel free to give it a read.

Every Day has a Snag

Sometimes it’s literal.

Today was my first day at my Big New Job. I planned my outfit the day I received the offer. I borrowed a purse from my mother to accompany said outfit. (How cool/sad is it that my elderly mother has better accessories than I do?) I watched the weather as I was getting ready this morning, and heard the weatherman say, “If it’s already sprinkling where you are, it’s going to be raining harder soon.”

As I stepped outside my building, I noticed it was sprinkling. A few minutes later, it really started to come down. And sideways. By the time I got to the subway, my feet were soaked, and I could wring out my hair. When I left the subway, it was even worse.

My hair was mostly dry by the time I had a new badge photo taken, but it wasn’t cute. The bottom half of my dress dried out sometime during lunch. It was a little after that time that I looked down and realized that I had two large runs in my pantyhose. They both started in the foot, curved up the ankle, and went all the way up the outside of my leg. Why, for the love of pagan holidays was I wearing hosiery? Well, it was the first day and I didn’t want to push the boundaries of casualness. Yah, ‘cause wearing nylons with giant visible runs makes such a better impression.

By the time I left the office, the rain had mostly cleared up. And then, walking home from the subway, my shoe fell off mid-stride. And before I knew what had happened, my practically-naked foot was on a wet New York City sidewalk, and then it was back inside my new red shoe. And now I will forever think of that shoe as contaminated.

Tomorrow, there will be no hose.

T-1

This is the end of an era. I’ve used that phrase before for lesser things, but this time it’s true. Tomorrow will be my last day with my employer of the last 12 years. I’m prone to nostalgia anyway, so this week has me feeling quite cognizant of everything that’s about to change. There are little things like wondering when I’ll ever be on 125th Street again; and big things, like the ever-growing recognition that I am about to be the new kid in a way I haven’t been since I was actually a kid. Then there are a lot of things in between.

In many ways I consider myself change averse; I am drawn to a life of consistency. But as much as I feel that, I can’t stop this continuing urge I have to adjust my life in ways big and small.

Dancing Like My Mother

Blogging at The Peanut Gallery Speaks today. Jump on over and join the conversation.

A $20.50* Snooze

I am not a morning person. Never have been, and, at this point, have pretty much concluded that I never will be. If it were up to me, I would never speak before 11am. It takes every ounce of emotional strength I have to say, “Thank you” to the man at the subway who hands me the newspaper and to the conductor on the train.

I set multiple alarms, not because I’m afraid they won’t go off, but because I know I’ll sleep through them. It happens. Missed all four of them just a few weeks ago. I try to give myself extra time in the morning to get going, but nothing seems to motivate me to get out the door. I tell myself that if I leave by 7:40 I can have a leisurely stroll to the subway, yet somehow wind up leaving later than that and race-walking up the street.

This morning I got a late start. I snoozed a few times (which is pretty typical), didn’t hurry too much while getting ready, and got out the door one minute later than I was really comfortable with. I missed the subway by 4 seconds. No exaggeration: the doors had just closed as I got to the platform. Not that big of a deal: this time of day they come every 2-3 minutes. Two minutes pass. Three minutes pass. I check the time on my cell phone. Five minutes pass. More math in my head. Eight minutes after I missed the subway, another one pulls in, and as the train carries me uptown, I calculate the odds of me making my train to Connecticut. They aren’t good. Sure enough, I emerge from the subway, and run around the corner just in time to see my train pulling away.

I wait half an hour for the next train and realize that in addition to strolling into work unusually late, I have another problem. I will miss the last shuttle from the train station to my office. So, when I arrive, I look high and low, and eventually find a taxi (but not before finding an ATM so I can pay for said taxi).

And now I wonder, will the pain of this morning get me out the door any sooner tomorrow? Probably not.

*$20.50 is the cost of the taxi ride, plus the fees for the non-affiliated ATM.

Is This Part of Christmas in July?

I mentioned some time ago that my employer is on a health kick. They’ve been on an eco kick even longer. They reduce their footprint; they develop resource-saving technologies; they turn off unnecessary lights. Why then, for the love of all that’s holy, is my office colder in August than it is in February?

This isn’t a trick question; I’m not located below the equator. And it’s not unique to this building. Every commercial structure I go in this time of year blasts me with air that feels fresh from the arctic. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate Freon as much as the next girl. But, when the temperature inside makes my nose run, there’s something wrong.

I mentioned this to an angry old man that I work with, and he informed me that I should wear a sweater. Really? The daytime temperature here hasn’t been below 85 in weeks, yet I’m supposed to bundle up?

Survey says? Yes. Here I sit, wearing a hoodie over my lovely summer dress, to prevent the frostbite that would inevitably settle in otherwise. I can hardly wait for the snow to start falling so I can get warm.

A Double Standard

It is a law universally accepted that when it comes to female footwear, there is an inverse proportional relationship between cuteness and comfort. I haven’t gathered any formal data, but it seems to me that a whole bunch of my female commuting compatriots travel in flip-flops, sneakers, and ballet flats. I imagine that many of them pull a Mr. Rogers and change their shoes once they arrive at work, just like I do.

I hardly even notice what anyone is wearing on their feet. But this morning I noticed something, and then realized that I am a horrible hypocrite. There was a man standing on the train platform wearing a button-down shirt and nice slacks, and holding a briefcase. He was also wearing plastic flip-flops. And it was oh so wrong. I wear flip-flops with my dress clothes because the shoes that actually look appropriate with my work attire make it impossible for me to walk to the subway without some degree of pain. I’ve been under the (mistaken?) impression that men’s shoes proposed no such problem. Really, if I could wear loafers everyday, I wouldn’t need to have a drawer full of shoes at my desk. Am I just a hypocrite?

Too Much of a Good Thing

I like to think that I’m pretty adaptable. If I hadn’t been before all this moving nonsense, I certainly am now. My first night in New York I didn’t sleep very soundly. I was aware of the hum the fridge makes, the whir of the air, the light from the clock on the stove, and the cacophony from the street. Within a few nights I was blissfully unaware of all of these.

I spent the first week of August in Maine. Sunday night was my first night back in my new home. And I found myself in a re-run of my first night here. Apparently my sleeping self adapted to Maine, forgetting that I wasn’t staying all that long.

Branching Out

Since I’m so good at keeping this blog updated (insert sarcasm emoticon here), I’ve started contributing to another blog too. I’m scheduled to appear once every three weeks, and since other people are relying on me, I’ll actually stick to that schedule. Feel free to hop over and check it out.

A Delight for the Senses

When I think of all the ways the city ignites my senses, I reflect on sights and sounds and energy. Rarely did I think of smells. Yet in many ways, the smells are what I’ve noticed the most these last few weeks.

There’s the scent of the street, which is either bad or neutral, never good. Add up the number of dogs that live in a neighborhood, then multiply that by the number of times they get walked each day, then add the cosine of the gross tonnage of refuse that is awaiting pickup and multiple that all by the square root of the average daily temperature. No one’s doing anything wrong per se, but sometimes it’s just not sniffy-delicious. On the upside, I’ve found that these odors rarely permeate more than half a block at a time.

The Metro North train has a distinctive scent all its own. Some combination of overheated brakes, old vinyl seats, and older spilled beverages. Sadly, I’ve arrived home more than once to discover that my clothing smells just like the vinyl of those seats.

And finally, there’s the scent of home. Or rather, almost home. Every night when I step outside the train station in Harlem, the smell of fast food fried chicken hits me, and my nose knows I’m almost home. All I have left to do is walk one block to the subway, ride the express one stop, then walk home. How sad is it that fried chicken has become my homing beacon?

Never is Here Again

I say way too many famous last words. I speak in hyperbole and I like it. Other than the amount of crow I have to eat. The best trick I’ve discovered for that is simply not admitting that I was wrong. No wrong, no crow.

Shortly before I moved to the city, someone mentioned that I should get my groceries delivered. I quickly shot down that idea. I love going to the market. I find it relaxing. (Sadly, this is true. I’m a born domestic.) I’ll have no problem popping into the store every other day for a few things.

Yesterday (aka day 13 in the new place), I placed my first online grocery order. I could blame this turnaround on any number of things. The most obvious is that my favorite credit card made me an offer I really couldn’t refuse. Another contributing factor is my excessive love of ginger ale. Nothing wrong with that love in and of itself, but I’ve just started to realize how heavy that nectar is. The other thing I’ve noticed is that the most convenient time for me to stop in the store is on my way home from work. Sounds brilliant, right? Until you realize that the aisles in these stores aren’t even wide enough for full-sized shopping carts, let alone full-sized humans with laptops in backpacks. The logistics just weren’t working.

I have no idea if the delivery thing will become a regular occurrence in my domestic life. But right now, I’m really looking forward to someone bringing all that Canada Dry right to my door.

Itinerant Life—Three Years Later

On the fourth Thursday in November in years gone by, my mother would often encourage us to remember the events 360+ years prior. That’s an awful long time to look back on. But, like my mother, I have a tendency toward nostalgia, and this past weekend I kept thinking back three years. On July 4, 2007, I moved from The O.C. to Atlanta. I spent the morning reading a book at Dana Point harbor, then headed for John Wayne airport, dropping the book at the library on my way. Later that evening, as I drove north from the Atlanta airport, I saw at least three different fireworks displays. I thought it was a great way to welcome me to the state.

I’ve thought a lot about that move, mostly because the date provides such a nice milestone. This weekend I completed my fourth move since that one. But this move was a milestone in another way too: it was the first time I’ve moved without employer-sponsored relocation since Labor Day 2002. It’s certainly more convenient to have a team of professionals pack everything, load it up, then put it in the correct rooms at my destination. But there’s a sense of independence that comes from doing it on my own.

My place in New York is my 15th address (not including the places I’ve lived with my parents). The upside of this is that I’m pretty good at unpacking: establishing a place for everything and getting everything into its place. The downside is that I find the mere thought of moving again overwhelmingly exhausting. In my experience, moving is a task that I may become better at with practice, but it certainly doesn’t get any easier.

The real upside is that when it comes to moving, I’m done. (At least for the foreseeable future.) I have a brand new place to explore and all the freedom I need to do it. Have MetroCard, will travel.

Am I the Only One?

My favorite pastime of late is packing avoidance. This weekend I indulged in such decadent things as reading a whole book in one day and squandering much time in front of the television. Sunday night I was vegging out and channel surfing, when I happened upon the pilot of a new drama. I found myself being pulled in by characters and story lines, and one of the characters bites the neck of a contractor and drains his blood.

Really? Another one of these?

I’ve clearly missed a major memo. While I’m all for the willing suspension of disbelief, this whole vampire/werewolf obsession that seems to be everywhere just isn’t my thing. My suspension of disbelief stops somewhere around the attractive man falling in love with the witty, yet frumpy, heroine. I have no interest in vampires, time travel, or magic potions. I am happy to cede the point that some of this stuff may be well written, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Does it?

It’s Official

There have been many moments in my life that seemed to point to nerdiness. Several years on the math team come to mind. Or the fact that my books and CDs are alphabetized. Or that I know to the penny how much I’ve spent every single day for the last 11 years. Today I’ve taken it to a new level.

If all goes according to plan (and that’s a capital I, capital F), I’ll be moving in 13 days. The apartment I’m hoping to move into is approximately half the size of my current place. So, over the course of the last four weeks I’ve been donating, gifting, and posting on craigslist. (By the way, if you know of anyone looking for a patio table or a treadmill, let me know.) I think I’m down to an amount of stuff that will fit. Make that, I hope I’m down to an amount of stuff that will fit.

To test this theory out, I started creating different furniture configurations in my mind. Then I moved those configurations into PowerPoint. Then I measured my furniture to verify I had the dimensions right, and built a 1:25 scale drawing of the new apartment. None of the configurations seemed quite right, so I’ve now created a paper doll version of my scale model. My parents will be visiting this weekend, and I have every intention of putting my mother’s creative mind to work on my layout. I picture us having a lovely time rearranging paper cutouts on my scale floor plan until we have something that’s just right. Then, as I cut out little shadows of my furniture, it hit me.

I’m definitely a nerd.

Obnoxious: odiously or disgustingly objectionable: highly offensive

As I stepped on the subway Tuesday evening, I was happy to find plenty of open seats. As I took one, I noticed the young woman sitting across from me intently applying make-up. Staring into her compact mirror, she repeatedly dabbed her brush in powder, then blew the excess powder off the brush, while I watched a lovely little cloud of powder drift toward me. I thought how tacky it is to apply make-up in public. I thought how humid it was to be applying make-up. I thought how shiny my own face must be due to said humidity. As the clouds continued billowing toward me, I thought all sorts of things. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the man to my right look at the make-up process, then roll his eyes and shake his head.

As she continued working on her face, her brush knocked a chunk of make-up out of the compact and onto the floor. I thought about the mess that would inevitably make. And then she surprised me: she bent over to pick the make-up of the floor. I thought how I had misjudged her. Obviously she was considerate enough not to leave a mess. She then put the make-up she’d picked up back into her compact, then continued to dab her brush in it, blow the excess off, and apply it to her face. I thought I might throw up.

People had been getting on and off the train, and at this point it was a little more crowded. As another cloud wafted my way, I looked to the left and saw two women standing up, mesmerized and appalled by my make-up-applying friend. We shared a smirk and a headshake. When the next cloud formed, I looked toward them again, and we shared another moment. Shortly after, the young woman closed her compact, put it in her bag, and got off at the next stop. And I thought that was the end of this amusing little scene.

Just after she exited the train, the young man to my left began talking.

Him: You really shouldn’t laugh at strangers.
(I turned and confirmed he was talking to me.)
Me: I never laughed out loud. I kept it inside.
Him: It was pretty obvious.
Me: She picked up make-up from the floor of the subway
and put it on her face!
Him: It was pretty obnoxious.
Me: Wait . . . I’m obnoxious??!!!!

I had erroneously assumed until this point that he was being sarcastic.

Him: Yes, you were being really obnoxious.
Me: Well, I found it obnoxious that she was blowing make-up on everyone around her. That was the reason I noticed her in the first place.
Him: You don’t know her. You were obviously looking around trying to find people to make fun of her with. It was obnoxious.
Me: Well, you’re entitled to your opinion.
Him: It was obnoxious to laugh like that.
Me: I guess this is kind of circular. You thought I was obnoxious. I thought she was obnoxious. I wonder who she thinks is obnoxious.
Him: It’s obnoxious to laugh at strangers like that.

And I finally got smart enough to turn away from him and remain silent until my stop. Now that I’ve had a couple days to reflect, I can say with certainty that at least one person on that train was most definitely obnoxious. And I feel pretty certain that it wasn’t me.

No Time to be Picky

A few years ago, my brother had just started dating a woman who was clearly not good enough for him. (Biased much, little sis?) After hearing a voicemail left by this woman on my sister’s answering machine, I said something about her being crazy. To which my sister responded to my brother, “You’re almost 40; you can’t afford to be picky.” I don’t recall how I responded at the time, but I know what I thought:

• You’re almost 40; there’s a lot more crazy out there to weed through.
• You’re almost 40; you’ve avoided getting tied to the wrong person so far, don’t blow it now.
• You’re almost 40; you won’t have as many years to recover if a relationship turns out to be horribly wrong.
• You’re almost 40; it’s time to be pickier than ever.
  

I thought of this brief encounter in the kitchen today because of a conversation I had with a colleague who shares my job status (there aren’t many of us out there in my particular situation). We jointly wondered how to balance being open to opportunities while trying to protect the lives we want. I can hear the practical angel on my shoulder saying, “Your job ends in October, you can’t afford to be picky.” And then my true self pipes up:

• I’ve put my life on hold for three years; shouldn’t I get some sort of return on that investment?
• I’ve put my life on hold for three years; if I take the wrong job now, am I just maintaining the instability?
• I’ve put my life on hold for three years; if I settle now, was it all for naught?
  

Lots of questions. So far, no answers.

One Step Closer to Homelessness

One of the things I’ve noticed as I’ve moved from state to state is that no two areas have the same rental rules. I’ve also noticed that every landlord assumes their rules are universal. Apparently, the norm in Fairfield county Connecticut is to demand 60 days notice before vacating. This has become an issue for me.

I’ll back up. Since I moved back to Connecticut, I’ve been going through train tickets to Manhattan like people with halitosis go through mints. (Or at least like I wished they went through mints. And gum. And toothpaste. And floss). In other words, I’ve spent an amount of time in the city that some may deem excessive. It draws me in. I may have actually confessed at one point that I’ve become obsessed with it. So back and forth I go. My inner 9-year-old says, “If you love it so much, why don’t you just marry it?” Since land mass-human nuptials are currently frowned upon, I’m doing the next best thing: moving there.

And there’s where the problem comes. I’ve recently begun the search for an apartment. Even with all my experience in this field, I knew it would be different this time. For one thing, this move will be indefinite. (Yikes! The last time I did this was six years ago.) For another thing, well, this is an area that considers a fifth-floor walkup completely reasonable and 500 square feet spacious. All that aside, what really freaks me out is that there’s no lead time. See an apartment you like? Great! Plan on your lease starting tomorrow.

So, I’ve made my peace with not having an address. I’m giving my 60 days notice on my current place this week. And I’m just going to have to trust the universe that I won’t wind up living in my car.

Almost Famous

Not so long ago, I began stalking an old professor. Not in a creepy way. I was in a spell of reading young adult fiction, and remembered that this particular professor wrote in that genre, and I’d always liked her style, so I thought I’d see what she was up to. When I looked for her online, I found that she was a contributor to a blog. I began reading her weekly posts, then slowly began reading the other entries as well. I’ve become a big fan. These four women have strong voices that offer a great combination of insight, kindness, and laughter. On Fridays they have a guest blogger. I’ve been planning to write something to submit for the guest spot, but, like so many things in my life, haven’t gotten around to it. But, unlike most plans I make, this one didn’t just fade away (I really will get to Canada one of these days).

Yesterday, I received an email, asking if The Apron Stage could use my napping post for the guest spot this week. I was stunned. Not only could I have the guest spot, but I didn’t have to do any additional work. This is as close to ideal as it gets. Now I’ll just wait for a publishing house to contact me for permission to publish my two novel chapters as they are.

Who Decided This Pleasure was Guilty?

My name is Kelly and I am a napper.

“Hi Kelly.”

There are few things that are so enjoyable, and feel so verboten, yet, aren’t actually bad for you, as a nap. Doubt that napping is looked down upon? Subtly mention that you catch a few winks in the middle of the day in your next corporate meeting, and check the reaction of your colleagues. That look isn’t admiration.

Naps are on my mind today because I’m craving one right now. Thanks to the nuisance of daylight saving time (a pox on your house, George Vernon Hudson), I’m unusually tired this afternoon. Add to that the wet, gray conditions outside, and crawling under the sheets sounds near heavenly.

But this situation is not my ordinary nap scenario. While napping as an antidote to sleepiness seems rather practical, it is not the napping in which I typically indulge. No, I’m a fan of the Sunday Afternoon Nap: the nap I take just because I can. What is it about crawling into bed in broad daylight that feels so decadent? I get into that bed every night, and rarely even notice it. But during the day . . . that’s self-indulgent delight. It’s the sense that I’m getting away with something; that time is wasting and I’m not doing anything useful; that any minute someone could call, and, catching the sleepiness in my voice, ask, “Did I wake you?”

So, in the end, I suppose I’m grateful that napping is frowned upon in the adult world. If it was acceptable--or heaven-forbid, encouraged--I wouldn’t enjoy it half as much.

Oh, The Humanity!

My employer happens to be on a health and environment kick. This week, the company announced that all facilities will become smoke-free over the course of the next 12 months. Kind of a big deal when you consider that we have more than 320,000 employees spread across 160 countries. Smoking was already prohibited inside buildings, so I didn’t really consider this all that revolutionary. Although it will be nice to walk to my car without having to go through the occasional cloud of smoke from the folks who prefer to smoke in the parking garage than go outside.

Apparently I misjudged my colleagues.

I have never seen the kind of reaction to any announcement that I’ve seen to the smoking ban. People are ranting about big brother, socialism, and 1984. The themes that seem to tie the ranting together are discrimination and the infringement of personal liberties, with a passing nod to Constitutional rights. One of my favorites was the guy who quoted Ben Franklin: “They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.”

Now I don’t ususally like it when anyone claims to know the thoughts and intentions of those who lived centuries before us. More often than not, we tend to assume that the people we like and admire have intentions pretty close to our own, and that people we dislike have mothing but nefarious purposes. But I’m going to make an exception for myself. I’m going out on the limb to say that when the founders of this nation were crafting the documents we now hold (near) sacred, they were not thinking about the 21st century office worker’s right to smoke wherever they felt like it. I have a hard time equating a cigarrette during working hours on private property with essential liberty.

Am I missing something? Am I blindly allowing The Man to chip away at liberty, ignorant of the fact that the next thing to go will be something important to me? Or, as I suspect, will we be able to look back on this from some not-too-distant future, and realize that smoking has very little to do with liberty?

All Things Are Relative

I am one of those people who could never become a doctor—not because of the cadavers and blood, or the fact that I skipped my undergrad biology class about 90% of the time. No, I couldn’t become a doctor because I, like so many people, am easily convinced that I am sick. When primetime news shows and popular magazines discuss health topics, I inevitably start to display mysterious symptoms. And don’t even get me started on WebMD. I’ve had to limit myself to one visit a week. That site will convince anyone that the hangnail may in fact be fatal. Who wouldn’t blink when that warning “please seek emergency medical attention” flashes on the screen?

I’ve often wondered if I hold on to too much stuff. Despite donating carloads of items to charity every time I move (which is pretty often), I’m still amazed by how much stuff I have. And even though I’ve gotten better at parting with items of sentimental value but no real value, I still find myself holding onto things I have no use for. I’d begun to wonder if I had a problem with attachment to things. And then I saw Hoarders. Quite the opposite of my usual medical television experience, this show has me convinced that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me. Never tried to save a piece of furniture after mice had nested in it. Never held on to a collection of plastic bottle caps because the codes inside may earn a prize. Never had to tie myself down while I slept to make sure I didn’t slip into a pile of trash in the middle of the night. When I consider the possibilities, I’m downright sane.

This is one instance where a little medical knowledge has me convinced that I’m just fine. Now I just have to worry about this hangnail

Why Indeed

I’ve been thinking a lot about the summer of 2003 this last week. That July was the first time I remember hearing a song that has been recurring in the soundtrack of my life. It was a muggy night in San Diego, and Sarah and I had decided at the last minute to go to the outdoor concert. Over the next few months, the song became an anthem of sorts. I hear it now, and instantly I’m in my Subaru, heading south on 13th East in Salt Lake, trying to figure out how to get a job in Southern California; sometimes wondering what would happen if I just kept driving.

Before driving to Staten Island last weekend, I changed the CDs I’d had in my car for the last few months. On the way home, I found myself listening to this song that encapsulates my life yet again, drawn to it the same way I was six years ago. And I have to wonder, is it the song that brings these feelings flooding back, or am I drawn to this song because of what I’m feeling? I’m sure I’ve heard it in the years in between, but it hasn’t hit me the way it has this week.

Makes me think that this native is getting restless.

Strangers on a Train

After a lovely evening in New York City last Friday, I was delighted to find an empty row on the Metro North train back to Connecticut. I turned my iPod on, and by the time we were moving I was nearly asleep . . .

The next thing I knew a loud voice was coming over the seat back saying, “Seriously, you gotta turn that sh** off!” I was absolutely mortified. Had I just committed one of the deadly sins of mass transit? Could my fellow passengers actually hear the dulcet tones of the Beastie Boys? Was I listening to music at a volume so high that Christina would never speak to me again? I immediately paused the music and turned the volume down, but the shouting persisted. I took my earbuds out and quickly realized what all the fuss was about. Passed out in the seat in front of me were two people who had apparently set an alarm for 1:20am. A phone alarm. A loud, beeping phone alarm. And they were paying just as much attention to it as I pay to my alarm on a typical weekday morning. Which is to say, none at all.

Another passenger, I’ll call her Jane, took matters into her own hands—standing over them and doing her best to wake them without resorting to physical assault. Jane finally roused the woman just enough for her to assure Jane she didn’t have an alarm. Helpful. As the woman was drifting swiftly back to sleep, Jane immediately stepped in and gently coerced her into rifling through her companion’s pockets. No alarm in pocket one, so Rip Wan Winkle started to lean back. Again, Jane interceded and encouraged her to try another pocket. Apparently the alarm had been considerably muffled by the pocket, as now that the phone had been found and removed, it was distinctly louder. The woman looked at it as though she had never seen a phone before, but luckily, the increased volume of the beeping finally woke her cohort up. Jane instructed him to turn it off. He muttered something about the fact that the alarm was set so they wouldn’t miss their stop in Stamford. Stamford, as in my stop. Stamford, as in 1:56am. Demonstrating superb negotiating skills, Jane assured him that no one on the train would let them sleep through their stop, and then worked with him to figure out exactly how to silence that darned alarm.

As it turns out, they came mighty close to sleeping through their stop. Despite the best efforts of the people around them, they both fell back asleep no less than three times in the 90 seconds before the train pulled into the station.

And that is why I don’t dare sleep on the train. Unless I’m really really tired. Then I definitely don’t sleep on the train.