Thursday, November 11, 2010

What a Load of Crocs

Immediately after school on Thursdays, I run off to teach my one and only private lesson. It takes two metro rides to reach my student, but after 3 years, I still enjoy him. 

Today, as I was waiting for the metro for the first leg of my return home, a gang of young punk type teens entered and gathered on the platform. They looked so cute in their little leather jackets with Mohawk haircuts, I had to smile inwardly. As it was a small gang of seven who barely witnessed their fifteenth  birthday, I made the decision not to avoid their company by moving up the platform. When the metro arrived, we all boarded the same car and found seats both next to each other, but with some across the aisle. I, never without a book, it had already been whipped it out before leaving the platform. There have been times when I have lost consciousness in whatever volume is in hand, missing conversation, metro stops, and flirtations. Okay, so maybe not flirtations, allow me my flights of fancy. I was engrossed in this book, as these youngsters clamored like bullfrogs at a prom at the pond, it only registered on a theta level.

However, intruding on my peripheral vision on my right side was a young man bending over his knees in order to get up and under the cover of the tome in my hands. Unfettered and in high density ignore mode, he did not succeed in garnering any of my attention, but this caused my instincts to sharpen immediately. 

The next infringement on my space, time, and attention soon followed the book interloper when those accomplices across the aisle started pointing at my Crocs in simulated wood design. Perhaps it was the fact that I was not wearing socks, a habit I maintain until the temperature drops to freezing, but a balmy 48F. 

All this time they were making sounds that would have confounded an oscilloscope, had we had one handy. The pointing fingers that invaded my space did indeed make me cognizant of my surroundings, but still I felt the less attention the better. 

One stop before mine they were preparing to exit giving me a sense of relief until the metro doors opened and in one fell swoop, they relieved me of my Crocs and were out the door faster than Santa Claus when he hears encroaching footsteps. There I sat barefooted or barefeeted or just wishing for socks at last. As my mind projected a call to Ron to come meet me with spare footwear, again I was left in the cold to bear the cold when Ron did not answer his mobile.

When the elderly, but pleasingly plump lady flopped down on the seat next to me, I snapped out of my reverie only to realize the youth were gone, but my Crocs were still comfortably places on my feet. One of these days, these day dreams are going to get me in trouble.
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Melissa said...

Hi Ryan,
Glad I read till the end of this post! You got me.
At any rate, I've noticed that Hungarians will wear socks when it is 70 or 80 outside, and they think it's ostentatious that we don't. More than once someone has addressed this "issue" with me in concern for my health.

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