Archive for the ‘Metro is fun’ Category

Why The Fantasy Is Never As Good As The Reality

May 20, 2009

I am in the middle of a self-imposed Man Moratorium. Initially it stemmed from the emotional fallout of my last relationship but now it’s more that I’ve developed a general state of disgust when it comes to anything with a penis. The idea of dating just feels daunting these days. I’m not in the mood to wade through the sea of pleated-pants-wearing, workaholic, overachievers to find the lone intelligent, funny, snappy-dressing-but-still-not-gay manicorn that has miraculously managed to avoid full-blown Douchedom. Yeah, I’m bitter. And chancing another Wasabi Death Incident or potentially encountering Puker: The Sequel is more than I’m willing to endure. Instead, single, with on demand battery-operated sexual fulfillment, is working out just fine. My taxi light is firmly off and I’ve accepted that by taking a dating break at 30, it is totally possible my future could involve Crazy Cat Lady. But being in a Man-cation doesn’t mean I can’t look. Or shamelessly fantasize about random men.

Anyway, last night I left Lawyer Utopia kind of late. When I log the hours, I typically grab the 38B instead of Metroing home. There’s a stop directly in front of Soviet Safeway and my single state has devolved to a nightly dinner of box wine and the hot bar dregs. The other 38B appeal is the cute 30-something guy who gets on right before Georgetown, sits somewhere in the back of the bus and reads intellectual books. Last week it was Nixonland. This week it’s The Lazarus Project. He’s pleated-pants free and so far, I’ve not spotted any indications that he’s in a relationship. We’ve never talked, let alone made actual eye contact. But he’s reasonably attractive, seemingly harmless, and a fixture on my evening commute home. Thus, he qualifies as the perfect target for my reoccurring Bus Boyfriend fantasy.

Aside from Bus Boyfriend, my Fantasy Man Life usually involves Prince William, David Hasselhoff: The Early Years, or Scott Baio. It’s always G-rated. Sorta heavily-edited Harlequin or slightly tawdry Disney. Anyway, in my daydreams, Fantasy Man and I meet in a generic yet still great-story-to-tell-the-grandkids sort of way. Often it involves a random run-in at a Metro stop or a blind date we were both reluctant to go on. Because the greatest love stories of all time involve boy initially hates girl/girl thinks boy is a schmuck scenarios, we don’t get along. But fate keeps throwing us together until Fantasy Man Du Jour and I realize our love is destined. He proposes in some romantic yet still unnauseating way and that’s it. End of fantasy.

I’m sure my therapist would go all Freudish about these, especially in light of my current Anti-Man Stance. But whatever. To me, they’re just flights of imagination. Like a trashy romance novel in my head. And until last night, my imaginary Cinderella-like existence with Bus Boyfriend and his cronies was great. But, as fate would have it, I now have to remove Bus Boyfriend from the fantasy lineup.

Per usual, Bus Boyfriend got on the 38B last night. It was surprisingly crowded and instead of following his normal head straight to the back M.O., Bus Boyfriend looked around, spotted a free seat and beelined. Within nanoseconds, he was sitting in the empty next to me. I was eight shades of thrilled. This was my chance. An honest-to-God Metro Bus encounter that would make for great Ahhhh-isn’t-it-cute-how-they-met type wedding toasts. All I had to do was strike up a conversation about something innocuous, flutter my eyelashes enticingly and if that wasn’t enough to keep Bus Boyfriend enthralled, flash a little boobie. My breasts are like a dating tractor beam: point, shoot, score a number. Yet, instead of employing my usual flirtactics, I sat there. Mute. For 23 agonizing minutes I didn’t say a word. Opening lines kept popping into my head but I’d instantly reject them as not witty enough or as feeling rehearsed.

As the 38B went over Key Bridge, it hit a meteor-sized pothole. My iPod flew from my hand and landed on Bus Boyfriend’s lap. It was a moment ripe for a witty remark. But instead, I reached over on a retrieval mission and accidentally fondled his package. Still, I said nothing. No apology for the inadvertent molestation; not even an awkward complement on the endowment of his Man Parts. Speechless mortification had set in.

When the bus pulled into the Rosslyn Metro, I realized time was running out; the next stop was Soviet Safeway. But not even that was enough to get me to make a move. Instead of professing my undying fantasy love or my belief that we’d produce Gerber-label-esque babies, I just pulled the Stop Request cord, did the universal bag shuffle that signaled to Bus Boy I needed to get off, and scotched past him. As I inched around his knees, I finally broke the silence.

Me (in mumbly sort of way): Excuse me.

Bus Boyfriend (with a disturbingly knowing smile): No problem. Good night.

If my life were a trashy romance novel, those four words would have been the quintessential, defining sentences. But Katherine Land is a far cry from Danielle Steel; Bus Boyfriend’s voice was pitched astonishingly like Alvin’s, of “And The Chipmunks” fame. Except an octave higher and with a squeakiness reminiscent of somebody taking a hit of helium.

It was enough to reaffirm my singlehood and move Don Draper into the Fantasy Man rotation.

Alvin_Chipmonks_big_726

Advertisements

Today’s Metro Lesson: I Hate Monday

May 4, 2009

8:17: Send text message to office receptionist: Just awoke from dream involving Zac Efron, Chuck Bass and hot sauce. Can’t decide if my alarm is faulty or I have a previously unrecognized fetish for turtlenecks which necessitated I oversleep and finish the dream. Either way, I will be late.

8:17 and 22 seconds: Response from office receptionist: That does not explain the hot sauce.

8:18: Power shower. Actually take Diet Coke in with me. I view this as multi-tasking.

8:24: Attempt to blow dry my hair. Realize that Washington, DC has three seasons: Winter, Tourist and Living In A Bajillion Degree Sauna. Since it’s currently the third season, figure there’s not much point in spending time perfecting my coif. Even with no blowout, I refuse to forgo the other elements of my beauty regimen. But time is limited and I have to get to Lawyer Utopia. In desperation, I run to the front door, grab laptop bag and do a one-armed sweep of all beauty products residing on the vanity. Time permitting, I will make an emergency pit stop in Lawyerly Bathroom to stave off Hag Look.

8:32: Locate questionably clean underwear. Recognize that laundry has become a Major Priority. Decide I should wear my panties inside out and thus maximize Girly Bits Sanitation.

8:39: Dressed. And matching. Huzzah!

8:40: More Diet Coke, the Elixir of Life.

8:42: Fly out door. Forgo elevator for stairs. It’s faster and I try to convince myself that it doubles as cardio.

8:47: Warp speed to Rosslyn. Have adopted new mantra: I can make the 8:50 Metro. I can! I can!

8:47 and 42 seconds: Stupid woman is slow poking down middle of Megascalator, preventing passing on left or right. Irritated commuters abound. Contemplate throwing something at her head but don’t have anything I’m willing to sacrifice for the cause. Instead, decide to engage in a little self-hygiene. Open laptop bag and rummage.

8:48: Realize I forgot to put on deodorant while at home. Mentally explore the logistics of public application.

8:49: There is no subtle way to put on deodorant in a Metro station. Smell prevention beats out dignity. I apply.

8:50: Tourists on Up Escalator point at me and break out camera. If I am going to be immortalized in a stranger’s Adventure In The Big City Photo Montage, I might as well live it up. Strike a pose worthy of a Secret ad.

8:51: Metro pulls into station just as I hit the last escalator stair.

8:52: Sprint! Which for me means walk at a minimally increased pace.

8:54: Apparently, Orange and Blues are delayed and my train sits on the platform for several minutes. I hop on without having to Door Dive. Thank you, Suspicious Package At Farragut West!

8:55: Text office receptionist with update: Unibomber has struck the Metro. Delays. ETA is unknown.

8:57: Continue with beauty regime and put on powder and lip gloss. Pregnant Lady offers to hold mirror for me while I attempt contact insertion.

8:58: Office receptionist response text: See you at noon o’clock. Happy travels! Don’t kill anybody in your irritation. I’ve only been in my new job for a month, yet she knows me so well…

8:59: Metro movement!

8:59 and two seconds: They were just taunting us. The train actually only moves an inch and three quarters. Time to break out the eyeliner.

8:59 and six seconds: This time the train actually leaves the station.

9:00: Eyeliner application is not going so well.

9:01: I avoid tragic eye poking incident by millimeters. Begin to weight the pros and cons of blindness over vanity. Opt for vanity.

9:02: One eye done. Pregnant Lady Holding Mirror is snickering.

9:08: Complete eyeliner application. I resemble a drunken raccoon. Decide to delay the remainder of my beauty regime until I reach Lawyer Utopia and can utilize the bathroom. I fear that if I try for lip liner, I’ll end up biting off the pencil tip and face the age old conundrum: spit or swallow?

9:12: Arrive Farragut West. Suspicious Package has lead to a Commuting Cluster Fuck. Text office receptionist: I am in a stampede of people at Farragut West. If I die, please fix my eyeliner before they bury me.

9:13: Response text from office receptionist: Noted.

9:19: Emerge from station, proceed to 17th and I. Truck passes and sends up tsunami of puddle water directly at me. I am soaked.

9:24: Enter Lawyer Utopia and proceed directly to bathroom. Office receptionist follows.

9:25: As I begin to sponge myself off, office receptionist risks life and limb to voice an opinion: You should have stayed in bed. At least you had Zac Efron. But I’m still confused about the hot sauce.

Sigh.

Today’s Metro Lesson: Where A Granny Saves Me From A Roving Hand

March 4, 2009

Apparently, Metro was fulfilling its monthly derailment quota this morning. And, in a tale that’s beginning to feel old as time, the Orange was once again causing Commuter Headaches. As all savvy members of the Ridership know, issues on the Orange mean spillover delays on the Blue. With O-trains sharing rails and both lines behind schedule, by the time I arrived in Rosslyn, enough people were huddled on the platform to overpopulate Antarctica. It took five trains, 20 minutes and some aggressive elbowing before I was able to wedge myself onto a Blue. And by wedge, I mean I took down a woman with a mid-sized child, tunneled between two sets of legs and, once on the actual train, vice gripped my butt muscles, thereby creating the extra millimeter of space needed for the door to close behind me.

I’ve accepted that when a train car is super-sardined, there will be some inappropriate touching. Generally one person shifts, and their hand inadvertently gropes the innocent commuter standing next to them. Or there’s the occasional dry hump as a rider reaches for a distant handhold. But today, amidst all the accidental foreplay, I encountered somebody who thought overcrowding was a license to molest. As I listened to my God Help Me Have Patience playlist, I felt a hand go into my open coat. Initially, I thought it was an unintentional boob-brush. Except the hand stayed. And stayed. Until I realized this was no hand misplacement, but a targeted Bags ‘O’ Fun grab. I was appalled. Some pervie stranger thought it was acceptable to feel me up on the Metro? Oh hells, no!

Me (irate, but still whispering because of the sacred Metro Code Of Silence): Excuse me! Would you please release my boob? That does not belong to you!

Pervie Guy (playing dumb): Are you talking to me?

Me (deciding I don’t have to be polite to the pseudo-accidental boob grabber): It looks like the hand on my chest is attached to your arm, which would indicate that yes, I am indeed talking to you. Fair warning: I’m very anti-men right now. I recommend you let go of my breast before some of my ex-boyfriend issues displace.

And that’s when another hand came from nowhere, straight towards my ta-ta. But instead of copping a feel, the hand diverted and smacked Pervie Guy’s wrist. I looked over to find a schlumpy granny glaring at the boob rapist.

Schlumpy Granny (in that prim I-am-disgusted voice only the Over 80s can do): Want to grab some tittie, son? Well, go for mine. It’s been awhile and I assure you I wouldn’t mind. Otherwise, hands to yourself.

That? Was almost enough to make the molestation worth it.

Today’s Metro Lesson: The Orange Goes Kapowie

February 19, 2009

After this morning, I am pretty sure the current state of WMATA should be considered one of the Seven Signs of the Apocalypse. I mean, if today’s Orange/Blue catastrophe isn’t God pouring out His wrath, what is?

Some wheels popped off a big vacuum thing and Metro Hell was created.

It took God seven days to create the Earth. But Metro created Hell with one derailment. Just sayin'.

Welcome to Rosslyn. Today's its masquerading as the Sixth Circle of Commuter Hell.

Welcome to Rosslyn. Today it is doubling as the Sixth Circle of Commuter Hell.

Metro lies. Estimated wait time is more like an eternity squared.

Metro lies. Estimated wait time is more like an eternity. Squared.

The Commutership: annoyed, harassed and under caffeinated.

The Commutership: annoyed, harassed and under caffeinated.

A train! A train! But it's actually Metro being all taunty. It arrived on the top platform but it's going to Vienna.

A train! A train! But it's actually Metro being all taunty. It arrived on the top platform but it's going to Vienna. Everybody trying to get to the District remains screwed.

Please note the time and Metro's seeming inability to get its shit together as demonstrated by the continued delays.

Please note the time on the screen shot and then contemplate Metro's seeming inability to get its shit together.

Today’s Metro Lesson: Wherein I Almost Maul A Stupid Tourist But Bestow Helfpul Advice Instead

January 16, 2009

I was boarding the train at Rosslyn, noting the disproportionately high number of Uggs being sported by the female contingent of the Commutership, when a woman elbowed her way past me. Totally a tourist; she was clutching a Metro Map like it was etched in gold.

McElbows Amazon Tall Tourist Woman (in her Declaration Voice): I can’t stand here. I get off in one stop. (This is when she glared at me.) You have to switch places with me.

Me (eyeing the fanny pack strapped over her hot pink Columbia Geothermal SporTech Wind Resister 5000, and wondering how long it took to find a coat to match her 1986 relic): Um, pass. You’re two feet from the door and you’ll have eons of time to get off. Also, if we switch, there is nothing to hold onto but the bars overhead. I’m too short to reach the bars overhead and you can. I’m happy here, next to the pole.

McElbows (holding up her Metro Map threateningly): SWITCH WITH ME!

Me (maybe overreacting a wee bit, due in part to countless Annoying Tourists Incidents this week): NO! And you can’t make me.

McElbows, deciding she could force the situation, started to shove and bumped into an Eskimo-bundled Older Lady, who consequently looked like she wanted to bitch slap McElbows with her Grandma bag.

McElbows (totally breaking the Metro Code Of Silence): MOOOOOOOOOOVE!

Me (rolling my eyes and deciding I’d not had enough morning Diet Coke to put up with this hassle): Fine. Whatever.

So, we did the Switcheroo Dance. You know, the hip-locked 180-degree turn thing that probably originated in some remote South Pacific Island as a lusty courtship ritual but has now been universally adopted by Metro riders as the proper maneuver for exchanging spots during rush hour.

McElbows (clearly a crankypuss this morning): Your music is too loud.

Me (wearing my headphones solely as an anti-cold-weather ear-protectant, having not been able to locate any form of appropriate headgear this morning): It’s not on.

McElbows (with no concept of an Inside Voice, let alone a Metro Voice): TURN DOWN YOUR EFFING MUSIC!

Another Member Of The Commutership Who Should Be Awarded A Valor Medal For Willing Jumping Onto McElbows’ Radar: It’s not too loud, I can’t hear it and I am so close, I am practically grinding on her leg.

Me (feeling validated and superior): Like I said, it’s not on.

And that’s when we pulled into Foggy Bottom. Where McElbows supposedly was going to get off.

McElbows (tapping me on the head, which was level with her waist, thanks to her Giantess heritage): What stop is this? Is it Smithsonian? Because I have to get off at Smithsonian. Is this it?

Me (absolutely dreading four more days of similar behavior): No, this is Foggy Bottom. You have about four more stops. Please stop touching my head with your man-hands.

That’s when McElbows decided her seven layers of thermal clothing had to come off. Sure, every other Metro Rider was encased in yards of Gortex and fleece but they were all quietly sweating, feeling no need strip anything more than their gloves. And maybe a hat. Because that’s how things work in Commuterland.

McElbows (unable to get her arm out of her puffy sleeve, because the train was Tokyo Crowded): MOOOOVVVVEEEEEE!

Me (not sure if that was directed towards me, or to all the commuters within a five foot radius of McElbows, so mumbling): I can’t hear you over my turned-off iPod.

Another Member Of The Commutership Who Should Be Awarded A Valor Medal For Willing Jumping Onto McElbows’ Radar: *snicker, snicker, guffaw*

The train pulled into Farragut West and half of humanity began to exit. McElbows got swept up in the crowd and was pushed off the train by passive aggressive riders bent on exacting their special form of Commutership Revenge by not letting her back on board. I stepped off the train behind her and did my best to put distance between us.

McElbows (apparently faster than I thought, tapping my head): Hey, hey, hey! Why did you push me off the train? This isn’t my stop.

Me (trying to decide if “tourist” would be an acceptable defense before a jury of my peers): I did not push you off and please leave my hair alone.

Suddenly, like an angel from heaven, Another Member Of The Commutership Who Should Be Awarded A Valor Medal For Willing Jumping Onto McElbows’ Radar appeared. If things got ugly, I figured I had a witness. I was going in.

Me (doing the general DC populous a solid by educating this moron): Let me give you a little Visiting the District 101. First, don’t tell a DC resident how to ride the Metro. Some of them will cut you. Second, leave your coat on while you ride the Metro. If it helps, think of it as a protective anti-groping layer between you and the pervy guy who is trying to cop a feel. Third, don’t tell a person to turn down their music. The proper thing to do is to glare disapprovingly in their general direction. Unless it’s Kenny G. Then you can totally ask them to turn it down. Finally, it’s stand right, walk left. That’s one you better memorize now or else you’re going to get pushed down the Rosslyn Megascalator. Helpful hint: your left hand can make an L-shape if you go like this (that’s where I demonstrate). If you have a problem with any of these rules, write an angry letter to WMATA. They’re very responsive.

And with that, I pranced up the escalator.

Today’s Metro Lesson: It’s Going To Be A Long Week

January 13, 2009

As heard on the Farragut West escalator this evening:

“It’s stand right, walk left, TOURIST!”

It’s Sorta Like Prom, But Better!

January 5, 2009

Dear Mr. and Ms. Prospective Ballgoer:

Yeah, I know we aren’t going to have Oprah. And the only Obama sighting will be the life-size cutout of the President-Elect that I am bringing as my date. Even so, the Bloggerational Ball is THE PARTY to attend during Inauguration Weekend. It’s going to be historic. It’s going to magical. It’s going to be held in a bar. And it’s going to be nothing like Prom, because:

  • Once sufficiently boozed up, I will begin my campaign to be crowned Blog Queen. Please note: This is a solo venture, not in the least bit sponsored, supported or otherwise endorsed by the Bloggerational Ball Committee and if LiLu sees my Pretty Pretty Princess tiara, she’s threatened to confiscate it. 
  • I am wearing a strapless dress. Chances are high there’s going to be another Boobies Incident!
  • Booze. Lots of it. Legally.
  • The whole “loss of virginity” thing is out of the way.
  • Five Words: Riding. Metro. In. Formal. Wear.
  • The only pictures are the ones you choose to take for blackmail purposes. 423 posed photos of you on the White House lawn doing the Corsage Exchange optional. 
  • Sister Mary Regina will not be supervising the dancing. Nor will balloons be provided to maintain proper pelvic distance.
  • Commemorative souvenirs may be purchased at the nearest street vendor.
  • The only subcommittee is the one I formed, which is dedicated to making sure there is enough TP in the loos. Ladies, you can thank me later.

Today’s Metro: The Best Way To Spread Christmas Cheer, Is Singing Loud For All To Hear

December 23, 2008

Somewhere between Rosslyn and Foggy Bottom, I thought I heard bits and pieces of Silent Night. At first, I figured Diet Coke deprivation was leading to bizarre musical-Schizophrenia-like experiences. And then, as it continued, I began to wonder if my iPod had become possessed by DJ Jazzy Jeff and was consequently blending Christmas hymns with Trains to Brazil. As the Metro pulled into the station, my playlist ended. And there it was again: a lone voice, sort of reedy, proclaiming that Christ, the savior, was being born. I took off my headphones and looked around.

Through the Commutership and 84 people lugging over sized suitcases on their way to BWI, I saw a short, older Asian priest holding a Bible to his chest. I’d located The Metro Caroler. And oddly enough, I wasn’t weirded out like I am by the other religious nutsos who ride the Metro. I mean, the Guy With The Big Abortion Signs or the Woman Who Spreads The Gospel Of Jehovah’s Love Dust? Strange and annoying in a Pee-Wee-Herman-on-every-channel sort of way. But there was a peace about The Metro Caroler. He had a certain contentment and self-assurance that even the hostile stares of the Commutership couldn’t shake. Suddenly, while I was watching him engage in his Metro Singing Solo, I got this peculiar urge to channel my inner Mariah Carey and join in. Seems his special brand of whacky is contagious.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one infected. A few seconds after the doors closed, at the chorus, another voice weakly joined the The Metro Caroler. And another one. And then like six more. Until suddenly, it was as if Metro Magic had morphed us into an off-key version of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Voices were signing Silent Night from all corners of the train car. We got through one round of the hymn before the Metro arrived at Farragut West. There, the doors opened and the train car emptied, leaving The Metro Caroler once again singing alone. But on the escalator, I heard a woman humming Silent Night and I couldn’t help thinking that maybe, The Metro Caroler was sort of DC’s version of Cindy Lou Who.

Today’s Metro Lesson: If The Escalator Doesn’t Kill Ya, The Germs Will

December 12, 2008

Yesterday. Somewhere between Foggy Bottom and Farragut West: Gash the hell out of my thumb on mysteriously sharp ad holder thing by the Metro train door. Bleed profusely. Briefly consider sucking on cut as form of self-triage. Reject idea based on potential oral acquisition of Metro Death Germs.

Escalator at Farragut West: Hold rail as stand on right. Notice hand is consequently black and grimy. Realize attainment of Metro Dirt near wound does not portend good things. As walk to office, forswear lady like behavior and spit numerous times on thumb injury. Hope this will delay onset of gangrene.

At Place of Lawyerly Things: Wash hand and employ liberal amounts of anti-bacterial gel. Definition of liberal: the approximately 1.8 ounces remaining in bottle.

At Place of Lawyerly Things, ten minutes later: Question Metro Germ conquering abilities of generic anti-bacterial gel. Seek out Lawyerly First Aid Kit.

At Place of Lawyerly Things, having located First Aid Kit: No Neosporin or alcohol (for rubbing or for courage). Ditto, no band-aids. Apparently, the office administrator thinks lawyers really don’t bleed. Determine life saving trip to CVS is required. Now.

At CVS: Spend $8.91 on germinator supplies.

At Place of Lawyerly Things bathroom: Call on all nuggets of medical wisdom garnered from ten seasons of ER fandom. Also recall some bits from Scrubs and Grey’s Anatomy. Reject Grey’s knowledge because bathroom is not sufficiently hygienic operating theater when Phone Sex Operation shares the facilities. Begin medical intervention.

At Place of Lawyerly Things, later that afternoon: Thumb status check. No visible signs of improvement. This does not look good.

At Place of Lawyerly Things, even later: Nope. Not good at all. Re-administer remedies.

After work: Determine that vodka kills everything. Mass consumption is only sure way to ensure survival and still possibly keep all my digits. Proceed accordingly.

Chez Apartment, in the wee hours: Remove bandage for evaluation of injury. Must squint to see clearly due to Vodka Eyes. Notice red streak from epicenter of gash to where thumb joins hand. Decide this must be monitored. Drunkenly decide it’s a swell idea to mark where infection is located. This will allow proper a.m. evaluation of aggressiveness of infection. Draw big lines around thumb with red marker. Apply more Neosporin.

Ches Apartment, in the even wee-er horus: Awake to Bionic Kitty licking Neosporin. Gross. Try to make her go away but too drunk to fight 20 pounds of determined cat.

Next morning: Thumb angry red color. Decide I will send Metro a helpful suggestion type email, advising they install Purell misters on all train cars and in high-traffic areas.

Next morning, a few minutes later, contemplating options after realizing redness of thumb indicates situation is grave: Amputate? Call 911? Protracted soak in vat of penicillin?

Still the next morning, but now two minutes later: Decide drastic measures can wait until after shower. Hopefully this will also encourage the return of sobriety.

While engaging in cleanliness: Red mysteriously disappearing. In fact, realize there is no cause for alarm over state of thumb. Hmmm. Water cure? Or has an inexplicable image of the Virgin Mary appeared in the soap scum?

Upon further reflection: From depths of vodka haze, vaguely recall liberal application of a red marker to entire general thumb area. That must account for red color.

And also: Remember Bionic Kitty licked thumb in dead of night. Perhaps her saliva holds Bionic disease fighting properties? Does this mean Bionic Kitty has triumphed over Metro Ebola? Yes! It’s a miracle! All hail!

Finally: Return to bed. Too drunk lucid thought.

Today’s Metro Lesson: I Break Escalators

December 9, 2008

Yeah, so I broke the Farragut West escalator this morning. But it wasn’t exactly my fault. It was more that I was forced to take lifesaving action by an Asian Lady wielding a colossal bag.

After the train pulled into the station, this Asian Lady erupted from the commuter pack like she was a Wal-Mart shopper on Black Friday. She body checked her way through the hordes until she reached the escalator bottleneck. Eventually, she got on the left side of escalator, directly in front of me, and strolled up about four steps. Behind me, the Commutership was surging forward, attempting to climb the stairs at their usual I’m-An-Important-DC-Person-Who-Is-Singlehandedly-Saving-The-Entire-Human- Population-From-Mass-Cataclysm-So-Get-Your-Hiney-Out-Of-The-Way pace. Yet the Asian Lady suddenly decided to take her sweet time. While she had no visible signs of Tourist, she was also sans Blackberry, black power suit or iPod. Clearly, she was not on her way to work and rushing with the other political peeps was no longer appealing.

But moving as slow as my ass on a Monday morning was not enough. About half way up the escalator, the Asian Lady stopped. Done. No more walking. There was no reason; the escalator was clear on our side. Everybody ahead of her had already reached the top and was well on their way to their Important Person Meetings. And then, just as abruptly as she’d stopped climbing up, the Asian Lady apparently decided that she was wanted back down. She took a step backwards, down one step. Then she did it again, forcing herself onto stair where I was standing until we were sharing five square inches of escalator. Behind me, the Commutership was still attempting to get up the left side of the escalator. Meanwhile, the Metro Rider at my rear kept shoving. He was like a hungry third grader in the lunch line, trying to compel us forward with Jedi mind power and brute strength. Within seconds, I was wedged between the Asian Lady and the Commuter Onslaught.

I’m not sure exactly how it got so whackadoo after that. Physics could probably explain everything, but it’s not like I paid a lot of attention in that class. I do know it happened in that weird slow mo which occurs only in movies or dire personal situations… As I felt myself being propelled from behind, straight into the back of the now immovable Asian Lady, I knew something had to give. But it so wasn’t going to be the Asian Lady. She was planted on those escalator steps like she was the freaking Great Wall of China. And the Commutership was not going to be detoured either. Within seconds, I got rammed to the right, ejected from the human pressure cooker. I bounced off a person standing next to me, pulling them off balance, and ricocheted back to the left, into the space I’d just been forced from. At that point, I knew I had two options: plunge backwards to my death or make a frantic grab at the escalator rail and pray. I wasn’t in the mood to be a Metro Statistic, so I went with option two.

Apparently the weight of a Midwestern Sexy girl grabbing the escalator rail like it’s the only thing keeping her from seeing Jesus is enough to trigger the emergency stop. But that sudden jolt made me hurtle backwards, into the line of antsy commuters. They started to topple like dominoes while I tried desperately to stay in place, arms doing that wild circle spin thing cartoon characters have perfected, balancing on my tip toes, desperately wishing that some of my dignity would remain and I wouldn’t fall.

I’m pretty sure The Universe had gotten its daily jollies at my expense and was about to take pity; I probably would have stayed standing. Except at that exact moment, the Asian Lady turned around, smacking my head with her 50 pounds of Big Bag. That was enough. I was totally Man Down and butt-planted on another Midwestern Sexy woman, who sort of make a deflating sound when I landed on her chest.

We all laid there for a minute, a sea of flattened commuters. And then slowly, we began to pick ourselves up. After I checked to make sure nothing was broken, I spotted the Asian Lady. She was at the top of the escalator by now, surveying the damage. She looked vaguely like the Wicked Witch of the West. But Asian. We caught each other’s eye and then, like this was my fault, she gave me The Bird. If she had been within reach, I swear to God, I would have cracked her like a fortune cookie.