Election Blues

“Why is it so damn cold?” I hear myself muttering.  The morning cold feels like it has inserted itself into my bones.  I chose high heels to make myself appear taller, thinner and more in charge.  Already my shoes are exacting revenge on my protesting toes.  My campaign manager, Alden Ritter and aide, Rachel Posen hold blue signs pleading “Re-elect Lyris Fein.”  We target sleep-–deprived commuters.

They flow down the platform demonstrating little interest in us.   I am just another candidate in a forest. I bestow my practiced smile on them.  Alden or Rachel thrust a glossy flyer in their hands, the one with a family photo and my bio.  Some brush past but most accept it without looking directly at me.  A few shake my benumbed hand.  After giving the flyer a cursory look, many then deftly dispose of it in the trash bin.  I know that before the last train car exits the station, Rachel will be bin diving to the retrieve any spared the soil of a splashed coffee.  We do recycle.  It is part of our ritual.  Well, the 8:11 has come and gone.  The three of us rush back to the hulking Ford Expedition rented for the duration.

Age Defining

These days when I venture into Manhattan, I am more inclined to take the train than drive. I no longer relish the challenge of navigating through dense traffic or deciphering a forest of parking rules. Is this because I am older and wiser? I am unsure. I notice other changes in my big city behavior and perceptions.

For example, the younger me would never have dared to approach a very handsome young man on the train platform asking him to pull up his pants. I explain to him that exposed underwear takes away from his good looks. Surprise, surprise – he appears chastened and even thanks me for reminding him about it.