Full of Hot Air

This morning as I was crammed into the greenline T shoulder to shoulder with what seemed like a few hundred other commuters I was thinking about the luxury of space (or lack thereof). Now don’t get me wrong, I am a city girl, no doubt about it. I love the beat and rythym of the city living. But I do get really cranky when my personal space is invaded for long periods of time, like this morning. Riding the T puts me in a really foul mood (thankfully in the summer I ride my bike to work). I get so pissed off at people who exhibit poor T manners.

The top 5 offenders:

1) Those who rush getting on the train before others have had the chance to get off
2) Those who do not give up their seats for those who need it more than they do
3) Those who leave their bags on the empty seat next to them even when the train is getting crowded so no one can sit there unless they have the balls to ask them to move their shit
4) Those who hog the “hang on” pole so others have nothing to latch on to (and on the greenline you better hang on or you are going to either slam into another passenger or bite it completely).
5) Those who just don’t take consideration for other travelers: playing loud music, eating stinky food, talking loudly, etc. etc. etc.

So there I was crammed in shoulder to shoulder and, as I mentioned before, I was thinking about the luxury of space. I closed my eyes (in a very Zen-like way) and let my thoughts wander back to my visit to the plains of the Masai Mara in Kenya. Now, that’s what I call Space. In fact, I don’t think I had ever seen before or since such a wide expanse of uninhabited land. No crowds, no strip-malls, no traffic, just… grass and the occasional zebra. It was amazing. Beautiful. At the same time, all that space and beauty made me feel rather small. This feeling of smallness was magnified while taking a balloon ride over the area. God, that was one of the best days of my life. I expected the views, the wind, and the altitude. I didn’t expect the silence. While in the air no one in the basket spoke, not even the pilot. All you could hear was the breeze and occasional burst of gas lifting us skyward. It was like floating. Actually, it was almost like being underwater, where your body is freed of weight and all you can hear are the currents and your own heartbeat.

Maybe I should quit my job and become a professionalhot air balloon pilot.

Pic of the Day: ballooning over the Masai Mara in Kenya:

2 thoughts on “Full of Hot Air

  1. More offenders….Those who just smell plain BAD and are exuding oily sweat from every pore AND have the audacity to be of such a height compared to you that, as you ride helplessly crammed together, you are pressed innocent nose to noxious armpit.Those pole-hoggers who, in addition to being pole-hogs while riding the T, leave a whitish, visible streak of kootie-filled SWEAT on the pole so that even SEVEN or EIGHT stops later you are still unable to touch it.Those desperate man-pigs who ALWAYS seem to be lurking creepily in the moving joint of the train and who stare ravenously at your bouncing breasts as you lurch around every corner from Park to Kenmore. Yes indeed, Terra, you have reminded me of one of the few nice things about chucking it all and moving to suburbia – no more Green Line!Cheers and thanks for your encouraging words,Ordinary Girl

  2. Ordinary Girl– You are SO right. I hate the smelly ones! Fortunately I am rather tall, so I rarely am forced into the armpit of another, but I can totally relate nonetheless– especially to those creeps who stare. Ugh! The worst!! Thanks for commenting!

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