Rambling To and Fro

We stand on the train platform and wait for her to happen by. When we see her approach, we give each other knowing looks.

Her whole demeanor screams, ‘Stop looking at me!’ But we can’t help it. It’s not that she’s sinfully gorgeous or sinfully ugly. It’s just that she’s a someone. It’s what we do. We people. We look at each other. I catch people looking at me all the time. But this particular woman takes it personally. I feel that if you don’t wish to be looked at you should stay at home with your walk-in closets and mirrors. (I always imagine that the same people who object to being looked at in public, spend much of their private time looking at themselves.)

We should all be reveling in our uniqueness. I, for one, have no ass. It’s in the family genes. (I’d throw a pun in here, but you’d all just groan.) When I read that Frank Sinatra had to pad his ass for the movie On the Town, I felt a kinship I haven’t felt since I discovered that I’m not the only one ever masturbated. And when I figured that out, I felt like hugging each and everyone of you. We’re all just one big family, you know?

And anytime I come across a disagreeable person, I try to imagine what they would look like while they’re going at themselves. It’s pretty much the same look you have when you’re in the dentists chair with your mouth stuffed with cotton and mortified with novocaine. For me, it takes the edge off their awfulness and makes me feel better. I know. It’s a cheap high. But I’ll take any kind of high I can get.

Back to people watching. I travel to work by train. One hour and ten minutes to and one hour and ten minutes fro. To and fro is my daily mantra:

To and fro
To and Fro
I’m on the train
To work I go

Train traveling is a good source of people watching. Some people watchers are far too obvious, though. I’m talking about the one’s who wear the sunglasses. We throw scorn at the sunglass wearer.

Look at a person proper, is what I say. If they catch you looking, smile and take your lumps. But always say something complimentary after you’ve been scolded.

“Sorry, miss. I’ve seen all you’re movies and I couldn’t help but stare. Must be wretched being so attractive and famous.”

It usually takes the bite out of the sting. (That last sentence is an illusion. It seems to make sense, but it doesn’t.)

Summer is my favorite time of year for watching people on the train. There’s nothing quite like the sight of a woman and her vacation luggage. I envy her her youth, as I detect not an ounce of fat on her bare midriff, as she struggles to get her steamer trunk onto the overhead rack. If you’re a belly button afficionado, like me, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Others might be asking themselves, ‘If the woman seems to be struggling, why don’t you get off your puny ass and give her a hand?’

Good question. It’s because I’m a people watcher. Not a good Samaritan. Although, I’m sure if I wasn’t so involved with watching people, I’d be good at that as well. But I leave those chores up to the do-gooders. Preferably the do-gooder will be a woman who’s also a yoga instructor with a proper belly button.