The Model on the Train

I got to work and felt an overwhelming desire to blog this, as it just happened.

I was out at a bar with friends last night (more on that later), and left a bit early because I felt both ill and exhausted. I slept in later than usual today. I did not take a shower. I did not eat breakfast. I did not put in my contacts. I did not put on any makeup (although I never took off the makeup I had on yesterday, so I'm sure there's some residual mascara still in place). And I did not put on clothing that matched (I am wearing a dark maroon button up shirt over a black tank top, a khaki-colored linen skirt, and mint Keds with white laces. I'm sure it doesn't sound horrible, but I assure you that it looks rather awkward. I'll see if I can find my camera before the day is through... And I'm sure the effect is only improved by the leftover bright orange eyeshadow that I have on from last night).

I was standing on the L this morning, going through the construction and dreaded "slow zones", and I noticed a fellow sitting in front of where I stood was writing something down. I peered over his shoulder. It appeared to be a rap he was writing. I suppose it could've just been poetry, but he was dressed like the sort of person who would compose raps on the L. He had crossed several words out, replacing them with better options. I tried to get a sense of what he had written, but I couldn't read his writing well from my angle. And at least one of the words I could make out was misspelled beyond recognition.

At one point, the train was stopped, so I leaned down to my purse, grabbed my red lip gloss, and began to apply it by looking at the window into my reflection, which was made more visible by the darkness of the tunnel. As I put the lip gloss back in my bag, the rapper tapped me on the shoulder. He then held up a piece of paper for me to look at. It wasn't the one he had been scrawling on previously, but rather a folded piece with only one sentence on it.

Are you a model?

"No," I replied with a smile.

He took his pen to the paper quickly and wrote, then held it to me again.

Aw

"Thank you, though."

YW

He went back to his writing, and I went back to staring at my reflection in the glass. I tried to see whatever it was that he saw. Tried to look at that girl in the glasses with the messy hair and the awkward pose, holding two giant bags packed to the brim with whatnot, and see a model. I couldn't see one. All I could see was me.

After another stop, he tapped me again, and once more held up the paper.

Why aren't you a model?

I said the first thing that came into my head.

"I'm too short," I said, my mind wandering to my mother's modeling days. I've seen pictures of her that were in magazines when she was a teen. She did runway modeling up through my childhood. She still sporadically does runway work, but usually just for charity events now. My tall, beautiful mother. 5'9" -- perfect for the runway.

Everyone says I look just like her. But I'm not quite 5'6", and you have to be 5'7" to do runway.

He showed me the paper again.

Not runway. Print work.

"I don't know. I guess I just never got into it," I stared thoughtfully at my minty shoes for a moment. "I am an actor, though."

He smiled at me. He started to write again as the train came to a halt.

"This is my stop."

He tried to write faster, but the person next to him was getting out. He stood to let the man out, and dropped his notebook in the process. I stooped to retrieve it. "Nice to meet you," I said, handing it back to him. He just nodded and smiled as I wove through the aisle toward the door and onto the platform.

I wish I knew what he was writing when the train stopped.

The weirdest part of this: I can't figure out why he was writing everything and not speaking it. If he's a rapper, he's not mute. Maybe he thought it was too loud. Maybe he was trying to be mysterious. Or maybe he just didn't want to be "that creepy guy trying to talk to a girl on the L". Rather curious, in any case.

I suppose it doesn't matter. It was a nice way to start the day.


May you find joy from unexpected sources.

~A~


P.S. As I was typing this, I told the story to two of my coworkers, who promptly pronounced that the guy was a "douche bag", and that he probably uses that line all the time. Oh well. Still made me feel good.

P.P.S. I nearly titled this "Model Train", but decided that would be misleading, as it's not actually about model trains. But know that I considered it. :)