The other day, I was reading The New York Times on my way to work, feeling like a mature woman of the world. That is, until I had to get from page A1 to A11. Having yet to understand the distinction between folding and crumpling the paper, I thought the best tactic would be to widen the diameter of the paper by stretching it taut, giving it a clearer path to a neat fold. But as I tried to bend the page, I suddenly heard a small squeal of pain from the woman to my left. I had given her a paper cut.
ON HER FACE.
I was clearly not to designed for adulthood. Functioning mostly at a tween's level of development, the idea of taking an off-term to join corporate America makes me feel like one of the creepy, over-sized Rugrats in "All Growed Up." And the place I feel most like a poser isn't even during the daily grind from nine to five. It's the seven-letter curse that I experience at 8:30 a.m. and 5:30 p.m. the commute.
I've never had a fear of flying from one end of the world to the other, but before this term, I would have nightmares about getting from uptown Manhattan to midtown, not because I was worried about getting to work on time. No, I knew the subway would get me there eventually. The issue is all the real people surrounding me. The commute is a parade of fully functioning adults flaunting how well they've surpassed the frat basements of their youth. I am nowhere near their level of maturity and I probably never will be. But, I've learned to fake it with the best of them and I'm here to share my insights with my fellow rookies...
First of all, unless you're a Rockefeller (hi, call me), you'll be using public transportation most of the time. Which, in New York, means you need a Metrocard and you need it as immediately accessible as possible. Seriously, tape it to the inside of your sleeve if you have to. Because inevitably you'll arrive in a subway station with t-10 seconds to catch a train and if anyone behind you sees you fumbling in a wallet, you'll be trampled faster than Mufasa.
Speaking of the subway, either get over your germophobia or invest in some sanitized gloves because unless you're Spiderman (hi, call me), the bottoms of your shoes do not stick to jolting surfaces and if you're not holding on to a railing, you WILL fall in the least graceful of manners. And no, perv, falling on to someone's lap is not a charming opener.
No matter how you may be traveling to work, whether on the London tube or via the lovely and esteemed Advanced Transit, be constantly aware of the volume of your iPod. You may have hearing problems or need a maximum decibel to rage against the machine but THE GROWN-UPS CAN HEAR IT. Nothing ruins a cool facade like the distinct beats of Justin Bieber blaring from your headphones. Also, when you select a new song, be discreet. Your neighbor is checking out your iPod screen. And nothing makes them more uncomfortable than when they spot you hit "Let's Get It On" during rush hour. (True story. Switched seats.)
And, finally, the necessity and peril of reading the morning paper. Now, I've been told that part of being (or posing as) an adult involves an awareness of the world outside of the gospel-according-to-Perez Hilton (though this is still a fundamental). To be relatively functional in small talk with your boss, you should at least skim a newspaper once a day. Which brings me back to my terribly scarring (literally) experience. BEWARE OF THE FOLDING PROCESS. It's like the person who first invented the newspaper layout was purposefully trying to faze the youngins. Now, I still haven't mastered this in fact, I spent the week following "the incident" reading just the openings of every front page story until I was at a comfortable distance from all human beings. But what I have learned is that you should keep the process to as small a circumference as possible. Be kind to your neighbors you've got a deadly weapon on your hands. Safety first, kids.
Now go out into the working world rockin' that empty briefcase and comically oversized blazer. Tommy Pickle's got nothing on you.
