Cover Your Mouth When You Blog

Open Entreaty to the Guy Sitting Next to Me on the Train, Chuckling to Himself for the Last Seven Stops

Okay, listen. You're starting to make me nervous.

See, when you were sitting across the aisle from me and I first saw you laugh a little, at what I assumed was that really tall guy standing next to the doors who you kept looking at - the one wearing the baggy black and white houndstooth pants and the shiny red pleather loafers - I thought, okay, he's laughing at that guy. That's fine. I mean, those pants are a little funny. I mean, not ha-ha funny, but funny, I suppose. I don't necessarily think it's appropriate to laugh at someone's outfit when they're standing three feet in front of you - unless they're a clown, in which case they would want you to laugh at their outfit, and that guy does sort of look like a clown in the those shoes - but manners aside, I kind of like it when someone lets out a quiet little chortle or an unexpected guffaw when something sort of funny happens on the daily crawl from the Loop to Lincoln Square. Like when it seems the train has stopped at the station and everyone lets go of the rails and then it lurches forward a few inches and everyone's suddenly falling over onto each other, thrown into an awkward embrace with the stranger in front of them. That's kind of funny, if you like that sort of humor. One day last month, when the train made a hasty hop forward at the Armitage stop, this girl wearing pink mittens grabbed a guy's nose to steady herself. Just grabbed it like that's what it was there for. Sort of cupped her hand around the tip of it. She apologized and the guy's cheeks became flush. He had sort of a big nose. That was pretty funny. I locked eyes with a girl standing nearby who'd also witnessed the event and we sort of shared a giggle. It was nice. So, I mean, I like it when something unexpected and kind of funny happens on the train and people break the silent iPod trance to acknowledge that life is happening around them and we're not just a bunch of corporate cyborgs being transported home to plug ourselves into the wall and recharge for tomorrow. So what I'm saying is, I didn't mind when you were sitting across the aisle from me and chuckled a little at that guy with the clown shoes.

But maybe I held your gaze for a moment too long, because then you got up and moved across the aisle to sit next to me. Why? Perhaps you misread my body language. I didn't want to chat or sit close; I just wanted to acknowledge that you were having a small moment of amusement. That's all. Really. And now, it's been nearly eight stops and I still feel the distinct shudder of muzzled laughter vibrating against my right arm. For the first three stops, I thought, okay, maybe he wasn't laughing at the clown shoe guy. Maybe something funny happened earlier in the day and now, in a moment of reflection on the ride home, he's enjoying the joke all over again. That's nice. I like that, too. I like when I can tell that someone's just remembered something really clever that someone said to them that morning and it has cycled through their brain for a second time, inciting a snicker. Or when someone emits a delighted snort while reading their book on the train. I like that. But somewhere around Belmont, you started to glance around the train, wearing a toothy grin, still gyrating in private merriment, and I was almost convinced that you were thinking of the lot of us, Suckers, you don't even know what you got comin'. What are you planning to do? And now, more unsettling, I'm not sure if you're looking out the window or if you're staring right at the side of my face, broad smile and quivering shoulders. Are you going to lick me? Please don't lean over and lick the side of my face, I implore you. (This is me, I know. This is my thing. This fear of a stranger licking my face on the train. I've asked my therapist. She has no idea.)

Are you getting off soon? Please get off. Go home to your clever wife or your cute, little schnauzer - whatever it is that's got you so tickled. In the meantime, please turn your gaze forward. And please, please for the love of all that is holy, please stop laughing. It's making me think you're mentally unbalanced. And if you are mentally unbalanced, please get off soon. I need to relax the rest of the ride home. Maybe I'll think of this on the train to work tomorrow morning and chuckle to myself, but right now, you're making me really nervous.

Another One Just Like the Other One

When you’ve woken up four mornings in a row at the exact same time to a cataract-colored sky, drizzling rain, and are forced to choose the day’s attire from a work-appropriate selection of seven sweaters, two turtlenecks, three pair of pants and a few skirts (a slender professional wardrobe because you refuse to wear iron-dependent garments and despise spending money on boring work clothes) and ride the same train where you see those same three women wearing the exact same, beige, plaid, Burberry scarf, on the fourth morning you may start to wonder: Why have you spent $250 on a beige, plaid scarf so common, so ordinary, that two other women who live within walking distance of the Rockwell brown line stop and choose to board the third car from the front would own the exact same scarf? It’s not an especially pretty scarf. It’s certainly not interesting. It seems that you could just wear a button that says “I could spend $250 on a scarf if I wanted to” and then go buy five $50 scarves of varying colors and patterns that someone might actually enjoy looking at while sitting behind you on the train.

And when the train arrives at your stop and you take the everyday path down the alley and across Franklin Avenue to your office building and you get a mug of coffee and begin work on the projects from yesterday, which resemble significantly the projects from two days ago, which resemble significantly the projects from two years ago and you decide to take a break from charts and graphs and get a glimpse at what those living a more exotic lifestyle are up to that day, you might log onto the People Magazine website. And while you click through the “Star Tracks” photos of the day, you may begin to wonder:

I know that Ashlee Simpson got her nose chiseled, so I understand why she now looks like Jessica Simpson, but why does she also look like Drew Barrymore and sometimes a bit like Sara Michelle Gellar?

Ashlee, Drew, Ashlee Again, Sara Michelle:

And why does Nicole Richie now look like Mary-Kate Olsen and also a little bit like Mischa Barton and also a smidge like Hillary Duff?

Nicole, Mary-Kate, Mischa, Hillary:

And why does Hillary Duff now look like a blonde Shannon Doherty?

Hillary Again, Shannon:

And when 5 o’clock arrives and you retrace your steps out of the building and across Franklin Avenue and through the alley and onto the train platform and see a different woman waiting for the brown line with the exact same Burberry scarf, you might think to yourself, There goes another one just like the other one, and realize that it also applies to your day. Or maybe that’s just me.