T and Sympathy

My T commute to work, from Brookline to downtown Boston, used to be a twice-daily preview of my personal hell. Shrieking children egged on by equally high-pitched parents (“Can you say ‘star,’ honey? Can you say ‘star’?? SAY STAR FOR MAMA!"). Raving homeless people who always want to sit right next to you even when there are plenty of other seats available. Hordes of Red Sox fans at various levels of drunkenness. People who wedge themselves into an already packed car and then proceed to curl around you from behind like it ain’t no thang to spoon a stranger in a public transportation setting. Individuals who think clipping their nails is an acceptable commuting activity.

The T is rife with abomination. It’s just a fact. Yet this all pales in comparison to the single episode that induced my T paradigm shift.

In general, I don’t object to people eating on the T. We’re all busy and hungry, and the odd bagel or sandwich or candy bar is fine. It’s a little gross when someone’s Chinese takeout makes the whole car smell like General Gao’s, but okay. I can still roll with that.

However, let me tell you this: it is NEVER acceptable to eat sardines on the T, especially if your preferred method is straight from the can and without utensils. 

As pictured: HORROR

That is a travesty of epic proportions, and should probably be punishable as some sort of civil rights violation. (Let’s not get into cultural differences here. I’m aware that it might be okay to enjoy canned fish on public transportation in other countries, but we are not in those countries.)

But here’s the thing: I realized that on some level, I actually found my sheer horror enjoyable, because I knew it was going to make for a great story. And it’s true; the T is a wellspring of hilarious anecdotes. It almost never fails to provide fodder for watercooler and cocktail conversations. So instead of rage and revulsion, why not let your commute be the experience that it is, a daily sampling of the best and worst of humanity? Yeah, sometimes you’ll witness soul-scarring sights. But sometimes you also get to hear two complete strangers with an age difference of several generations bond over their shared love of musicals, exchange numbers, and make plans to see a show together. (This really, actually happened.) It can be kind of wonderful.

Which isn’t to say that you should ever trim your nose hair while standing next to me on the T. Because I will plot your demise.