Tonight I left school to walk the three blocks from school to the Museum of Fine Arts T-stop. The Kate Voegele concert was at a venue a block from the place I saw The Dresden Dolls twice. I knew my way.
The train pulled in while I was still across the street, so I took my time, intending to wait for the next one. By the time I crossed, it hadn't left, and a girl was climbing on just ahead of me, so I thought what the hell.
I NEVER run for trains, by the way. I fear falling down stairs, slipping on tracks all of that. The next train will come eventually ,after all.
I climbed the steps, put my ticket into the reader, thanked the driver and headed in. A guy stood up to give me a seat. I went for it.
The driver went for it too, in a manner of speaking.
We pulled out. I had one hand on the seat, and might have been okay had it not been slippery. My right foot slipped forward, my hip hit the seat, my cane fell to the floor and I'm fairly sure every commuter on the 6:30 train saw my underwear. (Note to self: be careful in miniskirts)
Also, funny story, one of Kate's songs is called "Gravity Happens"
I wasn't severely hurt. The last time I dove for a transport vehicle I broke a finger. Nothing like that happened. But it made me think.
MORAL OF THE STORY I don't run for trains. The next one is always coming. Why am I so impatient with other things, particularly writing? The right time will come, and if I let this one pass me by, at least I won't fall.
The show ended at midnight. I told myself if I made the trek home, I'd reward myself with hot apple cider.
I headed back for the T (start singing now).
I heard a train come in while I was on the steps, but I didn't rush this time. If I had, i wouldn't have made it anyway. My ticket was out of cash. I watched from the ticket machine as a D train (mine) sped out of the station. Three trains (C, E, B) came and went before mine came.
Eventually, I got my train, made it to Fenway and schlepped the three blocks to my dorm. Of course, it being after midnight all the side gates were locked, because after midnight is when Rapist and Murderers wait to prey on girls at a woman's college....
Whatever, I made it home.
My apple cider had fermented.
Chelsey take a, Chelsey take a, Chelsey take a cab.
This evening has sparked a series of posts, the next one of which is entitled The Guy Who Ate My iPhone. Stay tuned.