Straphanger Blues

Beep beep beep.

After an eleven day hiatus, I jolted awake at the unwelcome insistence of my alarm clock. My rusty return to the pre-dawn routine was stilted and slow, with Steve Inskeep alone encouraging me through the dark shadows; Renee Montagne, it was announced, is fortunate enough to still be on vacation and, I assume, rising at her leisure.

After one last, longing glance at my slippers, I begrudgingly began my brisk workaday walk to the train, the world not yet awakened from the howling of another three dog night. Without the prism of Christmas, glittered flurries and leftover snow piles quickly lose their picturesque charm. Rhododendron leaves curl in against the cold like hundreds of frozen scrolls. Glassy puddles of ice reflect only my grayed likeness, twinkling holiday lights now darkened with passed purpose.

At the train station, riders huddled inside against the blast of the passing express train, my pea green wellies a standout amongst a vainglorious crowd of Louis Vuitton Neverfulls and Burberry scarves. Upon the train's arrival, chivalry and pretenses are pushed aside in a mad dash attempt to bypass the cold and secure one of the few remaining seats.

"All tickets, all passes out and ready for final inspection! All tickets, all passes!" cries the stout mufflered conductor as the train picks up steam. Through the dirty, double-paned window I watch the station, and my vacation, come to a cold, unceremonious end.