Y'all. It is a downright miracle I even made it to work on Friday. Let me just go ahead and warn you, this post is going to be heavy on words and humor, but low on actual pictures of what happened, except for the ones Google Images will provide to help me narrate.
Ok, so one of the magazines I absolutely adore is
Real Simple. It's pretty much a guide to everything you ever need to know to make your life more efficient, fun, colorful, etc. And if it's not in there, you don't need to know it.
Well, this month, they did a story on a woman who has struggled with anorexia all her life. She even admitted to being 5'9" and getting down to 110 lbs. I'm 5'9", and I think I would eat an entire tub of Crisco before I ever made it to 110 lbs. And she mentioned watching pro-anorexia videos on YouTube, which made my imagination run wild, and there's something you should know about me. Dramatic health stories involving self-inflicted pain make me pass out. I'm not even speaking figuratively. The first (and only) time I ever fainted was in middle school youth group surrounded by metal chairs as some girl talked about her body totally seizing up on her. Let's just say I didn't go down quietly. So, even as I sat on the bus reading this woman's horrible story, I began to feel light-headed and clammy, and I was pretty sure someone was going to have to scrape me off the Pentagon sidewalk. Classy. I couldn't even move or put my head between my knees because there were people sitting in front of me and beside me, and I valued the fact that I seemed normal to them more than my consciousness. So, I stumbled off the bus at the Pentagon and sat down on a bench, pretending to rifle through my purse just so I could bend over and get some blood back in my head. It worked, but of course I made my way down to the Metro station just in time to see my train pull away. Seven minutes until the next train. Well done.
So, I prayed to God that I would be able to stand up until the next train came, because the only people who sit on the floor of the Metro station are the catatonic homeless who are smart enough to find air conditioning. Finally, the train came, and I got crowd-pushed to the back of the car, where there were plenty of occupied seats and very few poles to hold onto. So, I found the nearest pole and clutched it tightly until some five-foot man with little to no sense of personal space decided my armpit would be a fantastic shelter for his overgrown ponytail. So, under my arm he stood, as I locked my elbow and willed myself to not run into him everytime the Metro driver hit the brakes. Let's just say his head didn't clear my ribcage and any kind of contact we made would have scarred me for life.
Not even five seconds after this horrible munchkin entered my life, someone asked me if we were on the Red line train. Yes sir, that's exactly what that big sign over your head screaming YELLOW means. The Bill Engvall who lives in my head handed him this...
...but I helped him and made sure he made his transfer to the Red line when he was supposed to. Fortunately, Shorty McShortington got off at L'Enfant Plaza and I only had to deal with him all the way across the Potomac River (where's that eight-foot shark when you need him?).
While I was changing trains at Chinatown, I believe I could have set up my own concierge business and easily retired in the five minutes I spent helping lost tourists find their way to Metro Center (other platform, sir... you know that one with the big sign that says Shady Grove VIA METRO CENTER?!? It's not lying to you!) and "Penn Station" (sir, that's in New York City. You've got a few more hours ahead of you). To be fair, that guy wanted Union Station and really underestimated how badly I just wanted to crawl into the out-of-order elevator with a sleeping bag and an aromatherapy candle and forget I had to be anywhere.
Okay, so I got to Union Station in one piece and bolted to the leftmost line for the escalator (because if you don't move intentionally to the escalator climbing lane, you're going to be riding your way up the right side behind a sea of Birkenstocks and American flag t-shirts faster than you can say 'fanny pack').
I got all the way to the top, so close to sweet freedom and the ability to move under my own power, when the escalator technician, who had creepily eyed all of us as we stepped on, threw the escalator in reverse and sent everyone, locals and tourists, elderly and stroller-bound, kitten heels and Crocs, stumbling over ourselves and each other.
I wanted to cry. No, actually, I wanted to run back down the other side and punch that technician in the FACE. But that would have required relinquishing my newborn freedom, and it tasted too good. Finally, I made it to my office, my desk, and my sweet coffee cup. I thought it would all be okay. No one could trip me or invade my personal space or starve themselves and live to write about it. Not ten seconds later, the phone rang. "Hi, this is Mary Jo from Rock Valley... your website isn't working."
Happy Monday!
