Sometimes I worry about how

Sometimes I worry about how angry this city makes me. I understand that there are lots of times that call for a little aggression in New York. You have to be able to fight your way onto a subway sometimes, stand up to someone who shoves or harasses you; you have to be aggressive enough to get around people milling on the sidewalk, to get the cashiers ad Duane Reade to stop eating Cheetos and ring you up. I’d probably be killed if I wasn’t the defensive bike rider I am. I have no qualms about yelling at drivers who aren’t looking where they’re going, or who swing their car doors open as I approach; I see it as a way to train them to be more conscientious and less potentially homicidal. That’s not to say I go around shoving and growling--riding my bike is probably the only time I’m openly angry. The other times it’s more a simmering alertness contained in a composed demeanor. But I don’t know; sometimes it leaks out. Our neighborhood grocery store infuriates me: I flipped off the “ethnic food” aisle for only containing a shelf of La Choy soy sauce and every vegetable and grain Goya sees fit to can and box. Sometimes I want to punch the lady sitting next to me on the subway for chewing gum and wearing an entire bottle of vanilla perfume.

I wonder if I’d feel like this in another city, if life is always presenting you with frustrations and testing how you cope with them. I picture myself in suburbia, trapped in rush hour traffic with the sun in my eyes and know this has to be at least partially true. And there are lots of times when I’m not angry; most of the time I’m quite happy. I think as long as I keep the punching happening inside my head, and have J to vent to later, I’ll be okay.

Speaking of subways

I believe I wrote about our subway conductor, who we get quite often in the mornings on the R train and who always sounds like he’s saying, “This is the Manhattan bound duran train.” J and I have now had him as the conductor enough times to realize he really is saying “duran train” and not just some mumbled version of “R train.” As if this wasn’t strange enough, he calls D trains “David” trains, and I noticed that when the R hits Manhattan, he switches to calling it an “uptown Orion.” What’s up with that?

Clogged

The only good thing about being sick is that moment when you’re lying on your side in bed and your top sinus suddenly drains and, with a little pop, you can breath clearly through one nostril. The downside to this, of course, is that the bottom sinus immediately becomes clogged. Sometimes I like to turn over just for the novelty of doing it all again and breathing out of a new nostril.

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