I don't know why I got so narded up about going back to work, the day flew by and before I knew it I was back home. I started an intensive class with a young man who works in the government unemployment office. We sat together for 7 hours, mostly talking, and discussing grammar points and vocabulary tidbits along the way. I don't like doing anything for 7 hours, except sleeping, so I was a bit apprehensive about it. And all for naught, we got along famously and accomplished beaucoup.
I sat outside downtown for lunch and enjoyed people watching, the huge crush of noontime worker bees circulating through the streets. You can tell the people who feel they are important, the men swaggering and the women walking like men. The perpetual underlings are easily spottable too, shoulders hunched, not much spring in their step, the burden of knowing they have to go back to their cubby of slavery weighing heavily upon them. The tourists look the happiest, all agape and stupid looking, taking pictures of I don't know what, and soaking in the frenetic energy around them. I swear it's like New York at the lunch hour, everyone go, go go!
I would have to say that the most distasteful part of my day was the subway ride home. The metro is running at more leisurely summer hours still so the rush hour tends to have very packed trains. I hate this part. A bunch of stranger's body parts pressing against you while the train vibrates along the tracks. Why is it never a strapping young buck, and always A: a smelly man or B: a gum chomping teenager? Today, I got both. After work, I squeezed on the metro and somehow a dozen other people squeezed in after me. A gum chomping teenager (with music blaring in her ears) had TWO briefcase size purses, one of which was transparent with steel corners. This transparent number dug into my back, and forced me to shift around and glare with loathing at the girl. She avoided my gaze at all times. (It is customary to put your bags on the floor during rush hour and there are signs posted reminding passengers of this) I couldn't help seeing what was in her giant Zena purse since it was transparent and all, and thought how tacky it was to have your tampons on display. (Her way of saying Don't fuck with me today?) But wait, there's more, on the other side of me there was this sweaty, swarthy gentleman who was just starting to turn sour, little whiffs of it now and then escaping him. On the side of his Streisand caliber nose sprouted a gnarly mole, and I mean grape-sized, nestled in the crack between his nose and cheek. One single hair grew from the grape thing, just one, but it was a good inch long. How could he not notice this thing? Maybe it grows that much in one day? Finally, I just looked at the floor and waited for my stop, trying not to feel hateful.