Close encounter

This morning, I was forced to come to grips with this truth: my headphones and book do not make me invisible.

Ok, so I knew this back when one of those spa certificate canvassers tried to engage me near Madison Sq. Park in spite of obvious asocial accoutrements like headphones and sunglasses. At that point, the last evasive maneuver (yelling "No no no no no!") had to be taken.

But this morning, I was on the Uptown 6, blinking in the general direction of my book and listening to music. I felt a tap on my arm, and a woman asks me what time I have. Or rather, that's what she seems to ask me (I have those wonderful ear-plugging headphones). I take out one earbud, to be polite, while I show her my watch (it was 8:50am and I'm too sleepy–thanks West Coast baseball!–to speak or read an analog watch).

As we examine the face of my watch together I realize that I know this woman. I have overheard her commiserating on the N train in a non-indoors voice. Upon looking for the source of this voice a few weeks ago, I had noted her big hair, her drawn-outside-of-the-lines lipstick in watermelon pink. Oh yes. This lady has intruded upon my morning reverie before, though never quite as directly.

She clutches her heart. "Oh thank gawd I'm not going to be late."

I smile and go to reinsert the earbud as the doors close and we lurch out of 14th St.

"They're terrible at this job. They mark you down if you are one minute late. But you know me, I need my money from this job. I haven't been there that long."
"Really? Wow." She is standing so close to me, is speaking with such familiarity, that in my morning haze, it takes me a minute or two to realize hey wait no I don't.

"I have to help my mother pay for the airconditioning bill. It's so hot you know I can't sleep without the AC. I looked at the bill last month and it was $280. So we're splitting it three ways, me, my mother, and the tenants upstairs (gestures upwards, to indicate said tenants occupy the higher region of the subway car). She said 'Give me $80,' my mother says. She's so good to me. Really takes care of me, you know? I'm divorced."

I stare. We're not even at 23rd Street.

She then goes to tell me about how terrible her bosses are (they don't care she has to commute from Brooklyn, whether fellow workers are pregnant–by the way, she worked up until she was 8 months pregnant... her son is now 23), how a good man is hard to find (women's lib spoiled them all).

When we arrive at my stop, I know more about her than I do some of my close friends. Also, she has touched me (twice) and called me ma'am (thrice).

I kept my composure and did not pound on the subway door, begging for escape.

And listen, I'm not a mean person, really. It's just that early morning commiseration should be short and ideally wordless, unless you are an attractive man. Though, even then, wordless might be best. Nothing spoils your idea of the attractive man (or woman) on the subway quicker than coversing with them.

Desperately Yours

Slate's cover stories today are all about summer camp. My favorite bit in Timothy Noah's You Are How You Camped:

People (like myself) who didn't enjoy camp tend to have a problem engaging in organized activities of all kinds. Later in life we often become criminals or sociopaths. The more respectable among us often become journalists. If we're extremely bright or creative (or aspire to be), we may become writers or scholars or artists.

Shocking as this may be, I fall into that category. I did not like summer camp. I was a nervous child, so being surrounded with unfamiliar normal children plunged me into my own personal Lord of the Flies hell.

Granted, I do remember two semi-positive camp experiences. I went to Girl Scout Camp in New Hampshire with a friend of mine from home. The week went by quickly, and though I didn't love such forced group activities as swimming lessons on a cold and cloudy day, we had a pretty good time. The following summer, we were signed up to go to another camp together, this time on the Seacoast, but she bailed on me at the last minute, and I had to go alone.

Now, that was one hellacious camp experience. I was surrounded by strange children, adult counselors who didn't seem to like children in the first place, and very bad camp food. Especially offensive to my culinary sensibilities were the boxed mashed potatoes. The idea. There were no cool rustic cabins with bunks (my first camp had that... I liked that, reminded me of the movies). Just a big carpeted conference room where we slept as a group (though I just stared at the ceiling and counted the minutes until I didn't have to be surrounded by strangers who were not as offended by powdered mashed potatoes as I was.

We were dragged from pillar to post for all manner of group activities. The least pleasant of which was a boat ride out to and hike on one of the Isles of Shoals (Star Island, I believe). The exhaustion and windburn resulting from this jaunt inspired me to write a pathetic missive (closed with the phrase in the subject heading... yeah, that's right) to my parents, asking (nay, begging) to be collected immediately (the aforementioned child-hating adults would not let me use the phone). The letter did not reach my parents until I was already safe at home. Funnily enough, it was in the mailbox along with a letter I'd written before the hated boat trip, saying that things were fine. Naturally, they held onto it and occasionally quote tracts from it during family gatherings (not even two trans-Atlantic moves have parted it from them... lucky me). I imagine it'll comprise a wedding toast or two one day.

After that, I no longer told myself or my parents that I liked camp. There was a conservation retreat with my 6th grade class, but that hardly counts as I knew everyone, my teachers were there, and the counselors were from such exotic places as Australia. Also, we got to climb a ropes course.

I've long thought that there should be a camp for people like me. We could just hang out with our friends and siblings, not be forced to do anything. In my ideal camp I could alternate playing with my sister and reading.

Really, my ideal camp is just staying home. No money spent. No sleeping bags, no mean girls. More frequent showers, no latrines. No boxed mashed potatoes or swimming in crappy weather with uncomfortable color-coded swim caps. No gimp lanyards.

Of course, I still like summer camp movies (especially Wet Hot American Summer...if it counts, being a parody... I'd totally go back to summer camp if Michael Showalter was there). They allow me to imagine what it's like to not be intimidated by other kids or annoyed by organized activities.