Subway Hygiene

People in New York are fascinating creatures who live in their own private universe when in public. Personal space is a subjective idea that, on the subway, depends on how crowded your area is. In the evening rush hour, it is not unusual to have someone's hand smushed against your thigh which in any other setting would permit you to smack the person is quite normal and acceptable as long as the hand does not move. This is the most common violation of personal space on the transit system; frotteurs aside. But on this particular morning, on my way to work, I sat next to a woman who created her own personal space which pretty much violated everyone else's.

Certain hygenic activities should only be reserved for private time like extracting blackheads. No one wants to see you squeezing the crap out of your face. On the New York Subway, however, there is no such thing as private time. Riding the subway in New york is like driving your car in LA in that it's as appropriate a place to apply your mascara as your master bathroom at home. It's not unusual to see a woman attempt to line her eyes on the bumpy subway, but on this particularly drab morning, an older Asian woman sitting to my left determined it was appropriate to clip her fingernails. She was very intent on doing this, paying no mind to where the clipping flew or if they impaled someone in the eye. She did this from 86th Street to 68th Street. When she was done, she swatted the clippings on her clothing to the floor and put the nail clipper away. She straightened herself out and sat back with her arms out and crossed at the wrists in front of her. Then, as the doors closed at 68th Street, she felt it was time to let out the two most delectable belches I have ever heard: ah, the dulcet sound of gas escaping from one's esophageal tract! By 59th Street, as I'm trying to keep focused on my Bryson book, it seemed quiet, like her morning ritual had been completed. Ah, but I was in for more treats: she ruffled into her left sweater pocket to procure a wad of tissues and blow her nose like a foghorn. When her sinuses were thoroughly drained, she returned the tissues to her pocket and resumed her calm sitting state. That's when we hit 51st Street and I had to get off the train.

Hygiene seems like such an important thing, but now I know why they invented anti-bacterial hand lotion: it is for New Yorkers who ride the subway. Her antics were far from some of the more horrifying stories I've heard (a guy taking a dump on a seat on the uptown 6 train), but it makes you think twice before you grab a seat or hold the poles. I've learned to subway surf on the days I feel OCD-ish or when I can't find a spot to grab onto. It's good for the thighs which some guy will want to put his hand on during rush hour. Skeevy: it's what's for the subway, hygiene and all.