Of commuting & crab claws

Commutercam

I smell garlic and armpits. It’s confusing because it makes me feel nauseous and hungry all at the same time. It’s not enough to distract me from my game of Candy Crush though. I’ve reached level 79. I’m quite proud of this because a) it shows commitment and b) it demonstrates how expertly developed my visual reasoning competency skills are. Or something like that. Annoyingly the 15-year-old wearing a backwards cap that has TWERK IT embroidered on the front is up to level 359.

I am ten minutes into my morning commute.

Until two months ago I was the person who walked to work through botanical gardens and around harbour foreshores. I arrived an inspired-by-nature-rosy-cheeked-douchecanoe. Sometimes, the morning was so perfect that I felt the need to phone a friend and tell them about it. If there was a commuting ivory tower I was at the top, sipping my organic soy latte (extra hot please), enjoying the view.

And then I moved. And for me this meant that I would now be a person of the bridge and tunnel variety. I thought about this for a while before making a plan to use my commute effectively. I would become a much more well read person as a real life commuter. I would be more connected and use my transit time to reach out to people who I didn’t have the time for previously. I would be one of those people who started interesting conversations by referencing articles that I had come across in obscure online publications. I would generally be more awesome than I already was.

These of course, were the thoughts of an uninitiated plebe.

The reality is that while commuting I spend time wondering about whether that pregnant woman who I (begrudgingly) gave my seat up for was really pregnant or just fat. I also practice my bitchy resting face so that people who might be thinking of getting close to me, don’t. And when I’m completely disabled by the human crush I spend time imagining what would happen if my arms were replaced with giant crab claws with which I could pluck people out of my way. Would people run in fear? Would I still have to give up my seat for old ladies? Would my arms taste delicious?

So maybe commuting hasn’t made me a more awesome version of myself. Or maybe it has, if I could just make those crab claws a reality.

Endnote:
Liz was only able to fill the role of real life commuter for three months before a second move found her a 15 minute walk from work. She has settled back into the top of her commuting ivory tower easily. And she no longer spends time pondering X-Men style human mutations.

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