Patience.

So, it's true.  I'm not known for my patience.  I'm not.


I'm really, really not.


While most of every one of my friends and family knows this, it is still something we can chuckle about - enjoy a little light laugh over.  No one (to my knowledge) is ready to stage an intervention.


This leads to a confession: I'm a real *sshole on my subway commute. I am, but no one has known this but me.  Well, no one knew until I decided to write this post, but the word's out.  I'm a real jerk. I have no patience for bad behavior... or behavior that doesn't take others into account.  And by others, I mean me.


My survival method is New York City is to mumble under my breath or scream in my head, whichever allows more emotional bile to escape my body in a given moment. This behavior can be non-stop as I shuttle from home to work and home again.


Often, I have got a running commentary in my head that is so impatient and bitter, so unlike the self I like to admit to. When I witness behavior like in the pictures below (and p.s. these are borrowed images that roughly illustrate my experience) I find myself silently screeching things like:

"I really love the sound of your clipping your nails across the car from me." 

"Kid, your cuteness wore off before you opened your mouth to sing the entire score of "Annie."  And that is not a jungle gym.  Sit down, precious snowflake." 






 "Thanks for buying cheap headphones and cranking the volume so you could share your awful music with the entire subway car." 







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"Your standing smack dab in the middle of the doorway really helps speed up the loading and unloading.  Thanks, Mensa Men."  








"Hey thanks, lady leaning against the pole so other people can't hold on. I'll just jam my knuckles in around your back fat." 






 "Wow, you two, watching you make out and rub each other's bodies like genie lamps gives me exactly the lift I need in the morning."

"Stopping at the top of the stairs right in front of me so you can check your texts really helps me slow down and relax. Ommmm!"
(I used Kim Kardashian for this because she is my nemesis.  It only seemed right.)

And the kids who perform their dance-acrobatics show on the train... Man, hearing the words "Show time, show TIME!" makes me want to punch someone.

So. Last week, I went back for my 4th class  death wish at CrossFit Harlem.  I won't go into the entire routine, but know that we donned 50 lb. weight vests and did death squats while throwing 14 lb. medicine balls against the wall.  It was a BLAST. I celebrated the fact that I'd survived, but the shock wore off the next morning when I realized I couldn't bend anything.  I lumbered to the subway like Frankenstein, arms straight out ahead of me to balance and brace for a fall. And wouldn't you know, I became one of those people.  I couldn't help it; I couldn't move!  I had to stand smack in the middle of the doorway.  I had to lean against the pole and pretend not to feel the knuckles grinding into my back fat.  I started up the stairs in my regular 1st position because I like to run up the steps, but my legs seized up like the Tin Man's.


I think I heard some silent screaming behind me.