My trip home last night was … interesting.
After a long, but productive day at the office I rewarded myself with a trip to the comic shop, and picked up a few books for my trip to Jamaica (woo hoo!). Before I hit the subway I stopped off for an acceptable slice of pizza, and did some minor editing on Finders Keepers while I chowed down.
So far, so good.
And then came the subway. Less good.
Because the comic shop I go to–Midtown Comics–is, not ironically, in Midtown, I walMy trip home last night was … interesting.
After a long, but productive day at the office I rewarded myself with a trip to the comic shop, and picked up a few books for my trip to Jamaica (woo hoo!). Before I hit the subway I stopped off for an acceptable slice of pizza, and did some minor editing on Finders Keepers while I chowed down.
So far, so good.
And then came the subway. Less good.
Because the comic shop I go to–Midtown Comics–is, not ironically, in Midtown, I walked over the 42nd Street subway stop at Bryant Park, planning to take either the F or V train, whichever one I could best get a seat. Not a bad theory.
Well, when I got down to the platform, about 10 minutes went by before any trains came by. And in the distance, in a mumbly, not quite decipherable message, one of the MTA technicians was saying something about Queens-bound trains, but whatever it was, it likely wasn’t optimal news for me. Still, I decided that I was having a good night and wasn’t going to give in to subway grumbling.
So I waited … and waited … and waited, and a few other twists and turns not worth getting into, the train I finally got on sat on the tracks for a few minutes and was then taken off line, so I had to get back out on the platform, and wait for yet [i]another[/i] train. Naturally, the car is fairly packed because many other people are in the same boat. But with seating limited–and with my bad back–I try to scope out any empty seats, and if I can’t get one, wait for the next train. Standing just wrecks my back.
By this point I’ve been on the platform for half an hour, and yet my resolve is good. I still refused to give in to subway grumbling.
I finally got on my train, and see an empty seat. Nice. I’m not a rude subway guy, in that I won’t push people aside to get a seat, and I always let people off the train before I get on. I see that getting the seat I want won’t be easy, but I’m in line, so I’ve got a shot. But as happens in New York City, some … woman (I was going to use a more colorful word to describe her, but patience prevails) barrels past me and snarks my seat away.
Thrilling. So now I have to stand the whole way into Queens, and it takes about another 45 minutes, with a few delays.
Coincidentally or not, I was listening to my hero, motivational speaker Zig Ziglar at the time, on my iPod, and as I’m trying to sooth my achy back, he’s talking about forgiving those who do us wrong, not necessarily because it’s easy or right, but because it’s good for [i]us[/i]. It lets us off the hook and allows us to move on . So I smiled. A big honkin’ smile.
If there’s any lesson for me in this tale, it’s that I can let the subway wankers of the world ruin my day (or night), or I can try my best to forgive them for being wankers.
I admit, some days I’m far less forgiving than others. [i]Far. Less. Forgiving.[/i] But for at least one night, I was able to forgive those subway wankers for being who they are, and a tough ride home wasn’t so bad after all.
