Maybe I Should Start Biking to Work...Then Things like this Wouldn't Happen!

After all the ruckus I’ve seemed to have caused (and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of) with my blog post on the annoyance of bad biking habits, I decided I’d go back to tackling the really heavy stuff like my perpetually awkward existence on the metro (only now while now simultaneously dodging angry bikers who want to thread me through their spokes.) This one literally made me want crawl under the seat and die.

Okay so here’s the thing, I went to high-school in DC, Georgetown Visitation specifically, and we have an abnormal questionably unhealthy need to proclaim our alma mater from the rooftops with various articles of clothing, trinkets and jewelry. I just looked down and realized my yoga pants have “GV” embroidered on them. Good Lord. Anyway, being the sassy-unapologetic-domestic-terrorist of a college student that I am (shout out to the guy that came up with that! Too funny, broseph,) I wear my obnoxious little Vera Bradley wallet around my neck…on a Visitation lanyard. I’m not proud of it, but it’s crucial to the story.

Other crucial element of the story: I ride the metro with my sunglasses on, arms folded, and headphones in. I could not possibly look any more unfriendly or unapproachable. And yet, despite all of this effort, I have been subjected to multiple attempts at religious conversion, the relaying of information on a “Great botox doctor,” and now this. It was horrible, absolutely horrible.

Out of the clear blue sky (and by clear blue sky I mean pitch-black, dirty tunnel) I hear, “Is that a Georgetown Visitation keychain?”  

Oh sweet baby Jesus.

I look up, and standing just a little next to me is a man, quasi handsome-ish, but very apparently older than I. Granted, I am in sunglasses and a work-dress so my age is not exactly an open book, not nearly as much as it is on Patch anyway. I look up and take off my glasses.

“Yes, it is actually” How could you tell? Maybe the enormous GEORGETOWN VISITATION?  

But I know where this is going now. He went to a brother school, likely Gonzaga, possibly somewhere else. And then, true to form of these kinds of run ins, he’s going to ask me what year I was. Please don’t do this, sir. Don’t do this to me, don’t do this to yourself, don’t do this to the gazillion people that can hear us right now. Just. Don’t.

“I went to Gonzaga!”

“Oh! *nervous chuckle* Please stop there. Please. I’m literally begging you.

“Yeah, it’s always fun to run into one of us around this area…”

“Yeah………” Just a few more stops until Ballston. Please. Just keep babbling away ...

“So what year are you?”

Shoot me. Literally, please just throw me off this train.

“Um. I was twenty ten.” Another nervous chuckle.

“Oh.”

Conversation ends. Period. Dead silence. For seven and a half more minutes. There is no justice in the world, no little comforts in life. There is only my constancy as a beacon of perpetual discomfort.