Last night on the Green Line, I was the unfortunate witness of the most disturbing PDA ever recorded by mankind. Two kids, who were no doubt fed a constant diet of indie rock and self-loathing, embraced in a full-out, boobs-to-chest, passionate yet gentle bear hug. Their skinny arms wrapped around each other like vines along a fence. Their hands rested lifelessly atop each others backpacks. Then, as if playing a game of H.O.R.S.E., each one would press his or her lips against the other's face (not lips, not cheeks...face) in a moist kiss. They weren't even kisses so much as a slow and aggressive push and hold of the mouth against the face of another human. Then the other would reciprocate - only this time holding the display longer than the last. It was a constant onslaught of wet, delayed lippy awkwardness.
I was stunned at how this girl was able to withstand the public scrutiny with no fear of physical consequences. There is no way this morning this chick's face isn't as chapped as your ass gets when you forget to wear undies with jeans that didn't even technically fit you in high school. That pain is real, but at least it is private.
Every person on the train was staring at these two - including someone's grandpa who was sitting in the only seat directly facing them. He occasionally attempted to divert his eyes, but mostly he just gazed with his mouth hanging open in disbelief.
This probably falls under the same category as breast feeding. I get it - its natural and one shouldn't have to be ashamed of such a blessed life stage. But let's be honest: lot's of things are natural - like sweating and hairy armpits - but the world is a better place when people deny their existence. And truthfully, there are a lot of unnatural things that improve the world and aren't completely disgusting - things like vaccinations, hair dye, sunglasses and Splenda. I'd certainly rather see someone free of polio, grey hair and retina damage carrying around a big ol' sack of Splenda than watch two 19-year-olds suck on each others faces like wet, newborn kittens attaching their mouths to Mama in search of sustenance.
What is it makes these two think any innocent T-rider wants to see this? I guess this whole eff-off-its-a-free-country-conforming-is-for-Republics shtick is admirable, but a healthy amount of anxiety over social retribution never killed anyone either. (In fact, it might have saved Gramps who inevitably had a heart attack after escaping at Park Street.)
So, to you romantics out their who, for better or worse, could careless about what other people think:
If you reserve the right to be completely disgusting while using public transit, I reserve the right to throw up on you. It is a free country. Rock on.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Valentine's Love
Valentine's Day is an alienating tradition full of pressure and angst.
Those in relationships are forced to find the perfect present and date based on a long list of factors. Your union is only a month old? How much do you spend? Too much might mean you're too involved in the person. Too little, and you're as cheap as a 2007 Toyota Corolla. Creep or cheap, take your pick.
Those not in relationships are forced to find alternative activities, each one having unique implications. Those who go to bars can seem desperate or hopeless. Those who hang out strictly with members of the same sex can seem spiteful or insensitive. Those who stay home, stuff their faces and make love to the DVR can seem broken or bitter. I, myself, have been classified as all three.
Let's be clear. I am not one of those fuck-corporate-America Valentine's Day haters. I think it is a very nice little holiday. My senior year of high school - the only year I've managed to stomach a sappy boyfriend enough to wait to break up with him until February 15 - I was thrilled the day existed. Not because of all the mushiness - but because it meant I was better than all of my friends.
I was ecstatic that I could finally rub in the face of everyone of my unloved friends that I had a very real Valentine's Day date who I loved very much (read: I wanted 12 $1 carnations waiting for me on my desk in homeroom so I kept him around). I can still remember the sweet sense of self-actualization I felt, knowing how much more meaning my life had than each one of my single friends'.
It was touching, really. I picked him up in my Accord and we listened to Eminem while feverishly holding hands all the way to Applebee's. Then I opened the Build-a-Bear (!) he made for me, read the cheesiest card known to man, got weirded out and lied about having to be home at 9:30.
The only part of Valentine's Day I hate is that on Monday, everyone on the planet will be forced to relive his or her choice of festive activity at least 64 times. There is lot's of shame involved for us singletons. "Oh you went out in the North End then strolled along the Greenway, stopping at every corner to have him express his love for you? That's cool. I took care of my drunk roommate who cried to me about how lonely she is and how she hates herself because she lost her bag."
I can't wait for Tuesday.
Those in relationships are forced to find the perfect present and date based on a long list of factors. Your union is only a month old? How much do you spend? Too much might mean you're too involved in the person. Too little, and you're as cheap as a 2007 Toyota Corolla. Creep or cheap, take your pick.
Those not in relationships are forced to find alternative activities, each one having unique implications. Those who go to bars can seem desperate or hopeless. Those who hang out strictly with members of the same sex can seem spiteful or insensitive. Those who stay home, stuff their faces and make love to the DVR can seem broken or bitter. I, myself, have been classified as all three.
Let's be clear. I am not one of those fuck-corporate-America Valentine's Day haters. I think it is a very nice little holiday. My senior year of high school - the only year I've managed to stomach a sappy boyfriend enough to wait to break up with him until February 15 - I was thrilled the day existed. Not because of all the mushiness - but because it meant I was better than all of my friends.
I was ecstatic that I could finally rub in the face of everyone of my unloved friends that I had a very real Valentine's Day date who I loved very much (read: I wanted 12 $1 carnations waiting for me on my desk in homeroom so I kept him around). I can still remember the sweet sense of self-actualization I felt, knowing how much more meaning my life had than each one of my single friends'.
It was touching, really. I picked him up in my Accord and we listened to Eminem while feverishly holding hands all the way to Applebee's. Then I opened the Build-a-Bear (!) he made for me, read the cheesiest card known to man, got weirded out and lied about having to be home at 9:30.
The only part of Valentine's Day I hate is that on Monday, everyone on the planet will be forced to relive his or her choice of festive activity at least 64 times. There is lot's of shame involved for us singletons. "Oh you went out in the North End then strolled along the Greenway, stopping at every corner to have him express his love for you? That's cool. I took care of my drunk roommate who cried to me about how lonely she is and how she hates herself because she lost her bag."
I can't wait for Tuesday.
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