I rode the 71A the other day because it rained. I am supposed to be a bicycle commuter this summer, so you can imagine how it pained me to miss a day of riding and aggravating my raw buttocks and quads. Because it was raining so much, the bus was very full. And there was a wheelchair-bound lady on the bus.
When we got to this lady's stop, nobody would get out of her way so she could wheel out of the bus. They all refused to step out of the aisle and into the rain, instead squeezing onto the elderly people sitting in the front seats. The poor lady had to Austin Powers turn her way around the feet and bookbags. It took six minutes. Then, she reached a standstill. She could go no more.
Blocking her freedom were the feet and thighs of an enormously tall man. He sat staring ahead looking irritated, as if his long bones were not the cause of our delay in moving onward. Finally, the driver said "Stand up so the lady can get past you!"
The dude looked around, like "who, me??" and stood up...right in front of where she needed to roll. He kind of leaned into the fare box a little, as if she could just scoot right past his crotch, which was right at eye level. This woman was so polite. She didn't say a word or get angry or anything. She kept making hairpin turns and beeping in reverse.
Finally, the other passengers started to revolt. A man behind me was very red in the face. He banged on the stability bar and shouted "For the love of Christ, get out of the lady's way!" This set off a whole chorus of "We want to go home!" and "Move it, asshole!" It was like I was in New York again. I secretly enjoyed it. I wanted to start banging on the bars and chanting something, or maybe dump tackle him into the street.
The man never did move. A total of 14 minutes after we stopped, the poor woman finally wheeled down the ramp. The passengers who had been waiting to get on the bus were drenched. We were on a narrow part of Centre Ave, so none of the traffic behind us had been able to move. It must have been a bottle neck from hell. (The bus had no rear windows, so I cannot verify this) By the time I got to my stop, it had ceased raining and I walked home late, dry, and irritated. All because one man doesn't pay attention to his surroundings.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Husband
We had a brief layover at my parents' house on our travels this weekend. As we were getting ready to go, with Corey's usual sloth-like urgency, I noticed Corey had left something upstairs. This is also usual. In the eight hours we were at the Rank house, he managed to spread his possessions throughout both stories. I love that about him.
"Corey," I said, "Did you forget something on the counter upstairs?"
He looked at me, puzzled. Squinched up his face. I could see him thinking "Bicycle? No, that's at home. Toothbrush? No, I got that...what else could be important???"
I waved my hand in his face and said, "You definitely left something up there...something crucial...something you definitely need tomorrow..."
Nothing. No recognition. "Corey. Your wedding band!"
"Oh yeah!" And he scrabbled upstairs to retrieve it.
Corey hates his wedding band. He predicted this. His genes prepared him for this. Thirty-five years ago his own father, in what I believe was a thinly veiled ploy to cover his jewelry aversion, lost his wedding band down a drain and hasn't ever replaced it. Today, Corey takes his off all the time. He puts it on his thumbs and plays with it. He leaves it on the bedside table. Even now, I hear the rattle of it spinning to stillness next to his bottle of Fat Tire in the living room.
My sister's husband and she do not wear rings. Richard had a truly lovely reason, which made me feel sheepish and superficial for wanting Corey to sport one. But I just need him to have one on there. I like to look at his hand and see that it is married to me, along with the rest of his body. I like to remember sliding it onto his finger as the rabbi mispronounced his name and secretly giggling.
I thought if we got him one made of titanium--the same material of which top notch bicycles are made--he would start to enjoy it a little. It's only been two weeks. I haven't given up hope yet. I think he'll soon develop a callous and not be able to imagine his hand without it. At least I know he can't imagine his hand without mine there to swat at it.
"Corey," I said, "Did you forget something on the counter upstairs?"
He looked at me, puzzled. Squinched up his face. I could see him thinking "Bicycle? No, that's at home. Toothbrush? No, I got that...what else could be important???"
I waved my hand in his face and said, "You definitely left something up there...something crucial...something you definitely need tomorrow..."
Nothing. No recognition. "Corey. Your wedding band!"
"Oh yeah!" And he scrabbled upstairs to retrieve it.
Corey hates his wedding band. He predicted this. His genes prepared him for this. Thirty-five years ago his own father, in what I believe was a thinly veiled ploy to cover his jewelry aversion, lost his wedding band down a drain and hasn't ever replaced it. Today, Corey takes his off all the time. He puts it on his thumbs and plays with it. He leaves it on the bedside table. Even now, I hear the rattle of it spinning to stillness next to his bottle of Fat Tire in the living room.
My sister's husband and she do not wear rings. Richard had a truly lovely reason, which made me feel sheepish and superficial for wanting Corey to sport one. But I just need him to have one on there. I like to look at his hand and see that it is married to me, along with the rest of his body. I like to remember sliding it onto his finger as the rabbi mispronounced his name and secretly giggling.
I thought if we got him one made of titanium--the same material of which top notch bicycles are made--he would start to enjoy it a little. It's only been two weeks. I haven't given up hope yet. I think he'll soon develop a callous and not be able to imagine his hand without it. At least I know he can't imagine his hand without mine there to swat at it.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
How to Become a New Me
Being a newlywed is grotesquely joyous. I walk around the streets beaming and then see my reflection in the windowpanes and think "I would gossip about me if I saw me from the 71A." I just can't help it. I take my chipper cheer with me, even in long lines at government agencies.
My journey to becoming an all the way newlywed, to amending my name, began at the very building that sold us our marriage license. As luck would have it, I had the same government worker who worked our case to start with. She seemed not to remember me. She robotically asked me which sort of marriage license record I would need. I had no idea. I smiled and asked her which she advised. She snarled and said "Well, don't you have a passport???" Apparently possessing a passport makes it cost more money and take longer to get the copy of the license. I dared not ask her to point me toward the Social Security office and instead asked the nice man who patted me down and checked my backpack for weapons.
All in all, I've spent ten hours over the past two days changing my name. I have a printed letter of proof that I have a new Social Security card. I have a new driver's license. I have ten photocopies of my triple seal marriage license and lists of credit cards and student loans and iTunes accounts. Each place I go, the lines are longer and the people are grumpier.
The DMV man did not laugh when I pointed out that he was an upside-down lefty. The parking attendant at AAA didn't agree that the weather was fantastically dry and temperate. For some reason, the 71A driver didn't care that I had a brand new Panther card with a brand new rider name on it.
Ordinarily, long lines and customer service agents make me crazy. They make me want to murder. They remind me of the time I had to work the return counter at K-mart on the day after Christmas. But now? When all I can think about is gushy happy things? I could care less.
I should have saved up all my annoying bureaucratic tasks until right now, when my high spirits can't be broken, even by a 95 minute wait to print a form at the registrar's office.
My journey to becoming an all the way newlywed, to amending my name, began at the very building that sold us our marriage license. As luck would have it, I had the same government worker who worked our case to start with. She seemed not to remember me. She robotically asked me which sort of marriage license record I would need. I had no idea. I smiled and asked her which she advised. She snarled and said "Well, don't you have a passport???" Apparently possessing a passport makes it cost more money and take longer to get the copy of the license. I dared not ask her to point me toward the Social Security office and instead asked the nice man who patted me down and checked my backpack for weapons.
All in all, I've spent ten hours over the past two days changing my name. I have a printed letter of proof that I have a new Social Security card. I have a new driver's license. I have ten photocopies of my triple seal marriage license and lists of credit cards and student loans and iTunes accounts. Each place I go, the lines are longer and the people are grumpier.
The DMV man did not laugh when I pointed out that he was an upside-down lefty. The parking attendant at AAA didn't agree that the weather was fantastically dry and temperate. For some reason, the 71A driver didn't care that I had a brand new Panther card with a brand new rider name on it.
Ordinarily, long lines and customer service agents make me crazy. They make me want to murder. They remind me of the time I had to work the return counter at K-mart on the day after Christmas. But now? When all I can think about is gushy happy things? I could care less.
I should have saved up all my annoying bureaucratic tasks until right now, when my high spirits can't be broken, even by a 95 minute wait to print a form at the registrar's office.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Pictures of Marva's Mountain
Climbing. Recall: Marva did this in loafers. Her sneakers were wet from an earlier climb that day so she went with what she had available...
Corey looking moist in the mist at the top.
The moist, moist rainforest and Team Lev, the interlopers.
Climbing down with both hands. Now how did Marva and Corey skip so lightly down this craggy trail??
Gros Piton is the one on the left, the one so tall it disappears into the clouds. It looks so gentle and serene from a distance...Monday, June 04, 2007
Marva
I can't summarize the experience of being married or the wedding briefly enough to not be gushy, so I'm going to zoom straight ahead to the honeymoon.
We found ourselves on the beautifully gorgeous La Haut Plantation in St. Lucia, where our room overlooked two enormous volcanic mountains and the Caribbean Sea. Obviously, our first task upon seeing the mountains was to climb them. We took an $80 taxi ride on St. Lucia's only road, which runs around the perimeter of the mango shaped island, to get to the bottom of Le Gros Piton.
Oh, so cocky we were. We didn't believe we needed a guide. We have hiked before! We play sports! We wore t-shirts proclaiming our athletic allegiances. Nonetheless, we were introduced to Marva, who would guide us up the 2 mile trail into the sky.
Marva was as tall as Corey and shaped just like him. She quickly informed me she has climbed this mountain at least once every single day for 15 years, sometimes twice. Marva was wearing a t-shirt and mesh shorts and loafers. I became even more certain this would be a baby climb.
At first, Marva peppered us with fun facts as we began the gentle climb. She has never come in lower than 4th place in a marathon. This trail will require 17,000 footsteps from top to bottom. Twenty percent of hikers do not reach the summit. Once, on a tour she guided, a lady had a heart attack and died at the top. She plucked a mango from a nearby tree and started skipping straight up the rocky face without using her hands.
Four seconds later, I thought I would have to quit. Marva and Corey were running up the hill like lemurs. I was heaving and wringing the sweat from my soaked clothing. I felt like my nephew, using both hands to labor up the 25% grade. My heart beat so quickly and thunderously I thought I, too, might have a heart attack. I have never been so humbled in my life.
Halfway up the mountain, Corey decided not to scamper ahead with Marva. He lingered behind with his dying wife and helped me take smaller steps, reminded me to drink juice. "This is just like cycling," he told me, fantasizing about riding his Surly down the rocky face. It started to pour and the climb became slippery in addition to impossible. I prayed for the strength to finish.
Marva reached the summit and whipped out her mango. She wasn't even sweaty. When I finally lumbered up there, the rain clouds were so thick I couldn't even see the view. It didn't matter, though. The mountain had not beaten me entirely. I felt like I had conquered the world. Marva told me Le Petit Peton is more fun for her because the climb is nearly vertical and climbers must use ropes to ascend. I sprawled on a rock and prayed she would eventually get fat.
Climbing down was just as bad as climbing up, as I needed to use my hands and arms to lower myself down the steep, jaggy rocks. When I woke up the next morning, I felt worse than I did after my first rugby match. I spent the rest of my honeymoon soaking my sore legs and cursing the awful pride that allowed me to underestimate one of nature's most intense creations.
The experience has made me want to really dedicate myself to my fitness. To not just talk about it but actually become fit again, until I can really climb any mountain any time. Next time, Marva, I will keep up with you. And my loafers will have fewer scuffs on the toes.
We found ourselves on the beautifully gorgeous La Haut Plantation in St. Lucia, where our room overlooked two enormous volcanic mountains and the Caribbean Sea. Obviously, our first task upon seeing the mountains was to climb them. We took an $80 taxi ride on St. Lucia's only road, which runs around the perimeter of the mango shaped island, to get to the bottom of Le Gros Piton.
Oh, so cocky we were. We didn't believe we needed a guide. We have hiked before! We play sports! We wore t-shirts proclaiming our athletic allegiances. Nonetheless, we were introduced to Marva, who would guide us up the 2 mile trail into the sky.
Marva was as tall as Corey and shaped just like him. She quickly informed me she has climbed this mountain at least once every single day for 15 years, sometimes twice. Marva was wearing a t-shirt and mesh shorts and loafers. I became even more certain this would be a baby climb.
At first, Marva peppered us with fun facts as we began the gentle climb. She has never come in lower than 4th place in a marathon. This trail will require 17,000 footsteps from top to bottom. Twenty percent of hikers do not reach the summit. Once, on a tour she guided, a lady had a heart attack and died at the top. She plucked a mango from a nearby tree and started skipping straight up the rocky face without using her hands.
Four seconds later, I thought I would have to quit. Marva and Corey were running up the hill like lemurs. I was heaving and wringing the sweat from my soaked clothing. I felt like my nephew, using both hands to labor up the 25% grade. My heart beat so quickly and thunderously I thought I, too, might have a heart attack. I have never been so humbled in my life.
Halfway up the mountain, Corey decided not to scamper ahead with Marva. He lingered behind with his dying wife and helped me take smaller steps, reminded me to drink juice. "This is just like cycling," he told me, fantasizing about riding his Surly down the rocky face. It started to pour and the climb became slippery in addition to impossible. I prayed for the strength to finish.
Marva reached the summit and whipped out her mango. She wasn't even sweaty. When I finally lumbered up there, the rain clouds were so thick I couldn't even see the view. It didn't matter, though. The mountain had not beaten me entirely. I felt like I had conquered the world. Marva told me Le Petit Peton is more fun for her because the climb is nearly vertical and climbers must use ropes to ascend. I sprawled on a rock and prayed she would eventually get fat.
Climbing down was just as bad as climbing up, as I needed to use my hands and arms to lower myself down the steep, jaggy rocks. When I woke up the next morning, I felt worse than I did after my first rugby match. I spent the rest of my honeymoon soaking my sore legs and cursing the awful pride that allowed me to underestimate one of nature's most intense creations.
The experience has made me want to really dedicate myself to my fitness. To not just talk about it but actually become fit again, until I can really climb any mountain any time. Next time, Marva, I will keep up with you. And my loafers will have fewer scuffs on the toes.
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