Riding the Train

Back when I used to ride the train every day, there was a man who often rode on the same car as me. What was so remarkable about this man was that he was wearing shorts every time I saw him. It didn’t matter if it was 9 degrees or 90 degrees — he always wore shorts. I was pretty amazed by him the first few times I saw him. I thought he must be one of those strong New England types who never feels the cold and laughs at the sight of me, a Texas transplant, wearing Big Blue. Then I began to wonder where he worked — it must be a pretty informal workplace if he’s able to wear shorts everyday. Did everyone else there wear shorts too?

It’s funny how you spend so much time riding the train and creating stories about the people who ride along beside you. There was one older lady who always wore her hair up in a fancy, almost old-fashioned bun. She walked very slowly but with purpose. In the winter she carried a ski pole to help her navigate the ice. I always wondered if her grandchildren insisted she carry it, or if she was self-assured enough to carry it herself. Another woman had the craziest, multi-colored backpack. I was desolate the few weeks she went without it. Luckily she went back to it, and all order returned to the world.

Sometimes I wonder what people thought about me. Did they recognize me because of my coats? (I tend to wear brightly colored numbers — mostly to ensure I don’t get lost in the snow.) Or was it something else? My hair cut? My smile? My inability to really run for the train, but a willingness to try?

I miss riding the train sometimes. I got so much reading done and had two whole hours of ME time every day. But sometimes, what I miss the most are the people.