Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Buses, Cabs, and Rowing Machines

I "woke up" at 4am last Saturday so I could make a 6am flight to Virginia to see my parents. I once swore never again to fly out that early, as I'd missed a flight while sitting at the gate due to the obscenely early hour and me not being much of a morning person. At least not without the help of a pot of coffee and a few Red Bulls. Nevertheless, I walked out to the front of my building--in complete darkness, by the way; I had no idea 4 in the morning was so f*ing dark--to meet my cab to take me to the airport. I was looking forward to getting a little nap in on the ride over but, alas, that was not to be. An overly made up middle-aged lady with luggage was standing outside the building, putting her bags into my cab.

"You don't mind if I give her a ride too?" the driver asked.

What was I going to do? Tell the bitch to walk? I grudgingly shook my head and got into the cab, bracing myself for the inevitable dreaded small talk.

She wasted no time, handing me her phone and ordering me to dial a number.

"Here. Dial this number for me!"

I'm not sure if she thought I was the cab driver's assistant--the only one in existence to my knowledge--or maybe she had arthritis, but at the time, in my sleepy state, the request seemed perfectly logical, albeit really annoying. A guy answered the phone with more orders for me.

"What's your apartment number, lady?" the guy barked.

I leaned over to the lady sitting next to me. "What's your apartment number?"

"Who wants to know?!"

Oh, for crying out loud ... "The guy you asked me to call!"


After a few more awkward relayed messages, I was finally taken off phone detail and silently prayed that she would not be on my flight. She wasn't, but a two-year-old, with apparently the same fear of flying I have, was. The baby cried the entire duration of the trip. It was the first time I've ever been grateful for having a crying baby on my plane and not some high-maintenance woman turning me into her personal assistant. It's all about perspective, people.

On a completely unrelated topic, there's this guy who's a dead-ringer for Stephen Colbert, complete with glasses, suit, briefcase, and Oxford shoes, who's been coming to the gym every night to work out. I hadn't realized it before, but it's really fricking weird to see someone working out in a suit. What's weirder is that he's not even really using the machine properly. He sits down on the rowing machine, directly in front of me, and does these odd stretching motions for about ten minutes, then hops off to lift weights. I could probably bench press the guy he's so scrawny, but he's on the Nautilus machine, pumping 10 lbs. of weight like he's fricking Hulk Hogan. I don't know why, but it really creeps me out. Not as much as the handicapped guy on the bus, but still.

Speaking of the bus, I had a great run of not being hit on any bus drivers, but that run was broken today. There's a new driver working the afternoon detail. I love him--he's right on time and has a lead foot that gets me to Boston with more than enough time for me to watch Inside Edition. Today, as I was getting on the bus, I made the mistake of making eye contact.

"Where you headed?" the driver chirped.

"Haymarket," I answered and, for some reason, all I can think of is that I must've been giddy just thinking about watching a full episode of Inside Edition, and I'm still kicking myself for saying it, but I stupidly, stupidly added, "I go all the way!" (As in all the way to Boston, people.)

"Amen to that!" he responded.

I am now officially part of the problem.