The Comfy Corner

I often blog about public transportation because, well... because most of my life seems to be spent waiting at bus stops, waiting for the T, waiting to cross the street, walking to the T, standing in line waiting to pay for the T, waiting in traffic etc. So today, I was walking with Vanessa (to the T) and I was crossing the street in the most perfectly legal way; the white man was clearly lit and the harsh beep-boop sound that it makes was sounding, signaling that it was okay to cross. But as soon as I started to cross the street a biker zoomed past me at breakneck speed almost nicking the hair off my chin. It was in this moment that I realized that there exists a hierarchy of things that use the streets of Boston.

I overheard this conversation on the Silver Line this morning and it really put my life back into perspective for me. I never actually saw the people who were talking. They were right behind me and I didn't have the guts to turn around and look. But their voices were soft and mellow with a sadness that simply can't be described with words. This was the first part of the convo.

"My time has come!" I finally said to myself as I used my monthly link pass for the last time on May 31. "No more Silver Line drama for me!" The inevitable change from spring to summer meant that I was no longer a slave to the monthly fee to purchase my link pass. I have a bike, the fastest mode of transportation in the Boston area. When I ride the Silver Line I have to leave my house 30 minutes before any appointment just in case if there is traffic or delays. With my bike I breeze past the gridlocked traffic and through red lights and I can get there in 10.

So there I was on June 1, enjoying the summer sun, the breeze flowing through my hair as I pedaled my way up Washington towards Downtown Crossing - no crackheads, no strollers, no creepy men carrying small golden urns, just the sun, the breeze and me. It was a new season and I was a new man. Nothing could possibly get in my way. When suddenly, I heard an abrasive honk behind me. It wasn't the honk of any Honda Civic, it was a deep bellowing honk. It wasn't a chihuahua, it was a great dane. "What could possibly ruin this perfect day?" I said in shock. I turned my head and to my horror I saw the harsh, monstrously tall, flat front of the SL5. Yes, I was being chased by the Silver Line.

Sweat immediately clouded my vision as I pedaled faster. All I had to do was make it to the next T-Stop so that this monster would be forced to stop and admit more passengers. Then, I could gain a lead, possibly turn down another street where there weren't scary buses. I felt like Crash Bandicoot in the level where the giant rolling rock is following him and he has to make it to the checkpoints without getting crushed.

As my heart was pounding and my legs were pumping at gear 7, my mind suddenly flashed back to a time last semester when I was in a similar situation. I was pedaling along completely innocently when I decided to change lanes. I slowly made my way over to the right lane when SMACK! HONNNKKK! I had actually ran into a Silver Line! Confused, scared, and embarrassed, I pedaled back into the left lane and turned down a different street just to escape the situation.

That's when I suddenly realized; Every story good or bad, has its silver lining.

I don't know what's worse, the grammar or the fact that the door doesn't work. I just had to laugh when I saw this and say "Oh, silver line" to myself.

My favorite part was when a large group of Asian ladies (complete with pink shopping bags. What is it with those bags? Do they all shop at the same grocery store?!) tried to exit this door. They looked confusedly at the bus driver and she responded with "CAN'T YOU READ?!" I then looked at them and said politely "The door doesn't work." They looked at me with sudden understanding and they moved to another door. Now, maybe it was the fact that I am Asian and even though I spoke English, they could understand through some sort of racial osmosis, but I prefer to think they were just confused because of the grammar mistake. In the end, they exited the bus safely, pink shopping bags unharmed. I suppose every story has its silver lining.

Comfort awaits.

Alrighty folks, pull a couple of extra fluffy pillows into your corner, because we are about to discuss the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority, a hotbed of discomfort also known as "The T." With a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for problems. Riding the T is akin to hanging out in "The Chokey" from Matilda. Okay, I exaggerate slightly. The T doesn't have spikes. More specifically, I am concerned with the silver line. Or as I like to call it "the crackhead line" because you aren't on the silver line unless there is a crackhead or two yelling gibberish at no one in particular. And there is never a shortage of rowdy teens innocently rolling joints in the back of the bus, nor is there a shortage of screaming children shamelessly... rolling joints in the front of the bus. You get the point. It's sketchy.

So in this first chapter I would like to create an image for you to hold in your mind and then I'll hit you with the kicker. Imagine a man wearing a Santa hat, a plastic purple lei, and a jersey, nestling a small brass urn in his left arm and a small bottle of cologne in his right. At this initial description, you may be asking, "What's inside the urn?" I asked myself the same question. I even asked my boyfriend, Chris. Astutely connecting the dots, he said "maybe it was the remains of one of his reindeer." I responded (and here's the kicker!) "He was a large, middle-aged black man." To which his retort was "Oh, Santa wasn't black." I thought about this and the only black Santa that comes to mind is the robotic, dancing Santas on display at Wal-Mart (cut to a five-year-old, chubby me standing on the cold, white tiles of Wal-Mart staring at a dancing, black Santa in wonderment and confusion). So, the Santa theory is out. The only logical conclusion left is that this man's brother died on Christmas from cologne poisoning during a Celtics game in Hawaii. And this man... this loving, caring brother, was simply paying tribute on the day of his death. An honorable act that should be looked upon not in concern or confusion, but in admiration. I'm ever the optimist.

My favorite part of this story is how everyone else on the bus reacted: they didn't. Like true silver liners, everyone on the bus acted as though absolutely nothing was out of the ordinary. I probably wouldn't have picked him out amongst the sea of crackheads and Asians with pink shopping bags if it wasn't for the fact that he almost dropped his urn and the woman beside him tried to catch it as though he were about to spill his Dunkin Donuts coffee, not the remains of his brother (or reindeer). Luckily, he caught it. And that, I suppose, is the silver lining to that story.

Keep comfy.

The other day, during our weekly mac and cheese night, I had a conversation with my friend and future roommate, Vanessa, about nest-making. Now, perhaps this is yet another thing to add to the long list of strange things girls do (a list that grew so long I had to start dating boys) but in this particular case I am intrigued. She has a corner of her bed that she piles high with fluffy pillows and soft blankets thus creating a corner of utter comfort and relaxation. She terms this "the nest." I tried sitting in her "nest" and I must say, my bum has never felt anything more snug or cozy. I felt like all the comforts of home were built into the walls of that nest and were being manifested in the soft fabrics my body was fortunate enough to enjoy. I suddenly turned into a small, hungry chick nestled in the cozy nest, waiting for Vanessa, the mother bird, to bring me my mac and cheese dinner. I didn't want to leave and needless to say I am quite excited for her to move in (as long as she brings the blankets with her). We will have nests everywhere.

So I tried it, I loved it, so I've adopted it and made it my own. And don't hate on me for stealing ideas, changing them slightly and calling it my own because we all do it. I mean just give YouTube a visit and type in "me singing paparazzi by lady gaga." (lack of capitalization necessary). I now live by the "comfy corner" policy. It typically involves me coming home, throwing on my pajamas and dancing around in a little circle singing "comfy corner, comfy corner" and then plopping down on a pile of pillows and blankets. So in this initial entry, I would like to invite you all to my comfy corner. Throw on your pajamas and join me as I rant about the silliness of life's annoyances, joys and confusions. The road is bumpy but my corner's comfy. ; )

For those of you whose minds are more philosophically driven, I haven't left you out. Think of this blog in relation to all of the other things floating out there in cyberspace waiting to be discovered. You could be stalking people on Facebook, you could be checking your email for the 100th time in the past ten minutes, you could be brave enough to leave your cyber-fate to such dangerous things such as Stumble Upon or Chat Roulette. But no, you are reading this blog. You are among a very small group of people looking at this one lonely little page tucked away in the corner...this...comfy...corner. So cuddle up and enjoy.

Coming soon...the Silver Line Chronicles Part One