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This Morning

I should’ve known something was wrong when I caught the train that would get me to work on time (this normally never happens)…

So I’m on my overpriced surface rail train enjoying an express trip into work. A woman was sitting beside me, two women were sitting in front of me and one woman was sitting by herself across the aisle to my left. I’m not exactly sure what the cue was, but as soon as I turned on my iPod all of them started putting their faces on. The woman to my left was particularly skilled as she did so while talking on her cell phone (it wasn't on speaker) and putting on a pair of socks (apparently an emergency pair she keeps in her bag) as it was a little nippy this morning. The woman sitting with me stood momentarily and began adjusting her skirt the way a man adjusts his crotch. In the midst of this estrogen fiesta I wondered what it must be like to be bound to your looks. Women wear makeup and marvel over men not having to and having flawless skin. Maybe makeup is the culprit behind bad skin? There’s an answer out there somewhere. Having grown up a geek I’d be lying if I said I can’t relate, but at this point I don’t give one insert whatever you like here about what anyone thinks of me. Of course, I do have my bad days where I walk out the house looking like I should be walking into it, but I just grin and bear it until it's quittin' time. This all comes on the heels of last week, when on three different occasions women I work with felt the need to tell me they had just gotten their periods. And then at home, my wife got hers too. Oh joy!

My train pulled into Grand Central Station and I exited reveling in my manhood, the freedom that accompanies it and the knowledge that I'd be at my desk by 9. After walking about 100 feet on the platform I saw a man in a very nice coat rummaging furiously through a garbage can. He was digging so deep it looked like he was going to fall in. By the time I reached him he had found his gold: a silver Blackberry he must’ve accidentally chucked with his morning paper. He inspected it momentarily before running off, never looking up from the tiny screen of emails I’m sure he just had to check before leaving the platform.

The shame of it all is that I didn’t miss a step or bat an eye.

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