Ok, forget what I said about subdued subway rides. A guy starts a story, in a booming voice, with, “hey, I’m not an asshole, but . . .” so I know that I don’t want to hear this. I am the accidental audience again. After only one station stop, it is clear that he is wrong. He IS an asshole. Big time. (In the interests of proper attribution, in those last two sentences, I am paraphrasing a conversation between the former president and vice president, Messrs. Bush and Cheney.)

I switched to the express train. No one has boundaries. Everything must be said in the loudest possible voice. Did I miss a revision to the basic rules of civilized society? I don’t need to hear about a child in jail or the trials and tribulations of a 20-something as she readied for a weekend in the Hamptons.

I catch a look of me in the reflection of the glass of the subway doors. I am not such a pretty picture this Friday morning. Hair didn’t dry quite right and I need to lose a few pounds to wear this outfit. So I guess I fit well into the subway scene. Hey, at least I am quiet.