I ride the train everyday to and from work. On some days I cycle into the city and catch the train to Redbank; other days I walk a whopping 100 metres to the closest station and take the train in before transferring in the city.
In order to get to work by 7a, I have to get up early to get the train or trains. Earlier if I am to apply the oh-so-fine pedal power. Most of the people at work drive there. They have no understanding of why I take the train. They then tell me about how they never have time to read or do anything to de-stress themselves. Ah, but that’s why I ride the train. It takes a little longer, but once I’m on the train, I can read, knit, play Words with Friends, surf the net, and even practice the piano (oh, do I ever embrace the tablet/iPad trend).
There are downsides. Ironically, it’s the public part of public transportation. The public, a group of which I am a member. Sometimes I think that the best thing about the public is the giggling I do when someone forgets the L.
Sometimes the public is on its way home from working overnight and has an aura of pong, like the man right now over my right shoulder.
He is a bit ripe. And the seat I sat on was already warmed by someone who got off at the station I got on. My mind wanders: Did he fart, Does he have crabs, Can crabs crawl through the weave of fabric and infest my pink bits? To be honest, I know that all those before me are probably more like me than not; therefore, the seat is fine, just … mmmf … warm.
If the public isn’t riding on public transportation, then it’s jamming up the public streets. The way I see it is that the public is annoying. I can either tune the public out by reading, stitching, or writing, or I can be stuck in traffic and do nothing but seethe. Ah public lice. So itchy.
I am well entrenched in the public transportation life. That isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy a car ride, but if it’s for errands or to get me to work, I’d rather have someone else do the work. In walking distance (< 15 minutes by foot), I have my dentist, pharmacist, and doctor; three coffee shops (only one I like); Japanese, Thai, Indian, Chinese, and South American restaurants; a quickie mart that carries Ben and Jerry's, Dr Pepper, Pop Tarts; and a hot yoga studio to help me flush out the toxins I do so love to consume. A little further away, but do-able by bike and foot, are my karate dojo and hair salon.
I think the only thing I am missing is a dog groomers. The bitches that whelped my boys were snacking on the trashy kibble. My boys are gusdisting. That bony flapper with her delicate shoes and her delicate gold-leaf lead with diamonds on the hand strap walking her aloof greyhounds you see in art deco works? Yeah, 'snot us. No matter how green a dog park is, Omo will find the mud patch, and no matter how interesting other objects or smells are, Fabian will go wherever and do whatever Omo does.
Now I look forward to rainy days with the dogs. We walk to the mud. We play in the mud. We walk to the dog bath. We get pretty again. We walk home all excited to be wet and cool.
I am lucky to live where I can do all of this on my own two feet. My fuel is food, and I’m a guzzler.