The Show

The final grueling weeks of the semester, I treated myself to my usual Thursday-cappuccino one day early.

I’d learned the tricks to maximize efficiency by now: place the order while stopped at the embarcadero station. (I couldn’t place the order while in the transbay tube. And, placing it at the west oakland station would definitely ensure a lukewarm coffee by the time I made it to montgomery. I learned to exit the station towards the rear, making a sharp u-turn due to the new construction, and then voila! Coffee. I’d have a perfectly hot cappuccino in my hand and be back in transit in less than 7 minutes. Plus, I’d get in a good amount of cardio by climbing the stairs out of the station instead of taking the escalators.

Now, descending the stairs of public transit is another story. For some reason, the stairs are not always evenly placed, and some of them have missing chunks. Plus, they’re steep. One false move, and I could see myself in the hospital or wheelchair. Ascending feels less perilous, but descending 60+ stairs, in heels (even if they’re kitten heels) makes me feel a little bit like I’ve penciled in an appointment with Death.

I can see Death now, standing at the top of the stairs, pointing at the escalators in futility; still, floating alongside me and shaking their hooded head as I gingerly descend the stairs, one a time. But this time, in a dress. And it’s the dress that I’ve belatedly realized that I usually wear with leggings- otherwise, I can’t raise my arms and keep my dignity at the same time.

I’m descending the stairs of the montgomery station and the train is pulling into the station and a gush of that wind is rushing up the stairs. I hold my breath as I think about all the dust that is blowing into my face, hair, and possibly my cappuccino. But, I realize I have a new problem: the dress. Still trying to descend, holding my cappuccino, and maintaining balance- I let go of the grimy railing, and pull at the hemline. Not today, Satan. I’d rather die of a broken neck than embarrassment because I can’t even remember what chonies I put on that morning.

Delicately rushing, still holding my hem, the stairway opens up to the platform where five men, dressed in construction gear, are seated. They are facing the stairs and seem to be staring at me- actually, my hemline- eager to help me remember what chonies I had put on that morning. Sorry to disappoint, hun, but I remember now, which ones I put on this morning. They’re over 10 years old, but still decent. Even so, my 10 year old chonies are not a free show. I lock eyes with one of them and stare until he embarrassedly turns away, and then another, and another.

I’m not ashamed for wearing something I like. I’m not embarrassed for being human. But they should be ashamed for seeing me as anything less.

Run, run, run
as fast as you can
You can’t catch me, I’m

Mama
Teacher
Professor
Miss or Ma’am
Partner
Dishwasher
Worst-case-scenario-ready
so judgmental
Short and brown
Kind of cute

Just remember that
when you’re watching the show.