October 3, 2005

• Yuck.
  © The Author, 2005

  Yesterday I did little more than read, watch movies, listen to an afternoon thunderstorm, and nap due to the gross feeling that my brains had leaked out of my sinus cavities and been replaced by pink, scratchy drywall. My eyes, once moist and eye-like, had been replaced by mummified mothballs.

  This morning I woke knowing that I shouldn’t go to work. My neck felt like I had whiplash, my head pounded like I’d been boozing, and my stomach was all wobbly from being doused in a constant stream of sinus ooze.

  Have I mentioned I’m hourly at work? With no paid sick days? Hi ho, hi ho…oh Christ, you know the rest.

  I actually managed to get out the door to work a bit early, looking like shite in my coke bottle glasses (my eyes were too dusty to wear contacts today), humidity funkified hair, and a few angry pimples adding a fresh bit of color to my otherwise yellow, dead skin. I make it to the el right as it pulls up. Perhaps this won’t be such a bad day after all, eh?

  Fat chance.

  After chugging along through 2 stops, the train begins to move at a snails pace. Then it stops. Over the loudspeaker, a crackled message is spoken to us passengers, “A train derailment earlier this morning has the tracks leading into the Loop reduced from four tracks to two tracks. Please bear with us, there are many trains waiting ahead of us.”

  Twenty. Minutes. Pass.

  Have I ever mentioned my lovely habit of passing out when I’m uncomfortable? Well, on this un-air-conditioned sweat lodge of a train car, standing next to a man with a horrific cologne wafting from his every pore (I hate scented men), with no seats available to sit on and people pressed against me like maggots on a garbage can lid, I was uncomfortable to say the least.

  Usually when I pass out the worst part is the embarrassment of waking up with an array of concerned strangers around me, asking me if I’m pregnant, or if I’ve had anything to eat in this lifetime. This bombardment of mortifying questions is remedied by me scurrying away from the situation as fast as my legs will take me—which is pretty damn fast.

  Today, however, I was trapped. The train still hadn’t moved from its spot on the wooden tracks, towering above Sheffield St. There was no getting off.

  “Are you okay?” The wafting man asked me.
  “I’m fine. I just pass out sometimes.”
  After peeling myself from the grimy floor, I moved to where an elderly gentleman was offering me a seat. I took it from him and glared across the aisle at the perfect blonde staring at me from over her enormous trendy sunglasses, her lipstick-ed mouth agape, her green gum lying listlessly on her tongue.

  What a bitch, I thought, how can anyone let an old dude give up his seat?

  I couldn’t hate her snobby little face for long, because soon her image was washed out by a torrent of tears welling up in my eyes. Was I sad? Not at all. I was a bit embarrassed, but nothing to cry over. Instead, it was as if all the moisture that my mummified eyes had been lacking came to me at once; a wall of tears gushed from my eyes. I wiped the wetness away, but my eyes kept refilling. And refilling. I wiped my endlessly watery eyes and cursed seasonal allergies forever.

  Thanks to my over-active tear ducts, not only was I the freak who passed out, but now I also appeared to be crying about it. I was glad that I couldn’t see whatever prissy little look Ms. Bitch was giving me from across the aisle. But it did sort of suck that my watering eyes were preventing me from seeing much of anything at all. What’s worse, now my nose decided to join in on the party. It too leaked like Mr. Felt to the Washington Post.

  Deepthroat indeed.

  Finally, we reached the next train station, Belmont. I staggered off the car and made my way dizzily down the steps. I had been on the train for an hour and fifteen minutes, and I was only half way to work. Considering it usually takes 50 minutes tops (walking time included), this was heinous. I took a few deep breaths. I would call in; explain I was going to be late.

  My fingers punched in the numbers: 867-5309.

  (What, you don’t think that’s my real work phone? I work for Jenny. Benadryl makes me hillarious.)

  The phone rang. I was ready to say, “Hey this is Truly. I’m going to be a bit late, the train was having some issues,” when I saw my reflection in the window of the station snack shop.

  My hair was a freakish matt of curls and straight bits competing for which could frame my puffy, splotchy face worse. My eyes were glassy and beneath the walls of water, completely bloodshot. My nose was host to two worms of snot peeking their stupid heads out of my nostrils.

  When my boss’s answering machine picked up, I felt no qualms in telling it, “I tried to make it in on the brown line, but as you might have heard that is having some issues this morning. It’s for the best I haven’t made it though, as my allergies seem to have gotten the better of me today.”

  Then I blew my bubbling nose and took the bus home.
  ____________________________________________________________________________________________________
  How is the lovely change in seasons affecting your snout?

  • 1:17 pm
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