Most New Yorkers have secret city behaviors – little things they methodically do to trick or test the gods. Some are superstitions (never cross from west to east on an odd numbered street), others are based in logic (if alone in a cab always sit in the middle. If it side swipes anything you’ll be safe-ish), but most are just bizarre habits we’ve developed to convince us we have control over anything that goes on here.
Mine is that I carefully inspect every arriving subway car as it pulls into the station in search of my fated perfect man.
Depending on how fast the cars approach this can be anything from a really difficult to completely impossible task. Also, I don’t exactly know what I’m looking for, so the whole premise is sort of…challenged. Still, nary a train speeds by without my contact-corrected eyes zeroing in on each passenger I can identify like I’m some character on a crime-solving primetime drama. I have, after three years of this almost daily process, become extremely advanced.
I know at this point that there is enough distance in between the small door windows and the large, behind-the-seats windows to blink twice re-wetting the eyes for continued scanning. Also I’ve determined that more men tend to stand than women, so if a particularly speedy set of cars approach I concentrate my gaze exclusively on the standers.
All of this is conducted without the slightest affect on my face or body. I’m like a prima ballerina after three hours on stage – not one sign of concern, pain, or unbelievable hunger.
This of course is only phase one of the activity.
But there’s always the chance that the first Him I “see” won’t be as correct as the second Him sitting in a car that has yet to past by…
Then again considering I don’t know exactly who I’m looking for, it could be just as wise to stay at my original post and rely on the gods to plant my man between one and three cars away from me. Presumably if fate is working I shouldn’t have to run in heels.
In 3.33 years I have seen a Him four times. Once I got tripped on my sashay to his car (lady in the overly pointy purple suede boots, I will never forgive you. At Thanksgiving when great aunts ask why I’m not seeing anyone I cite you specifically.). The other three times I made it in and sensed he could be correct but had absolutely no idea how to transition from strangers in subway car to casually conversing future lovers. All that expert honing of my man-in-car vision had taken a toll on my conversation skills.
Once or twice I contemplated the famed Missed Connections section of Craigslist, but logical as that may seem, it goes distinctly against my secret city superstition. A second chance at fate is way less fun.
I often wonder how mine compares to other people’s – more interesting? More difficult? More obviously focused on finding a soul mate? Impossible to know.
But it reminds me of that old saying — that if we each put our problems in one, big pile we’d assess the options and take our own problems back.
I like to think the same applies to secret city behaviors. Unless yours is the same as mine. In that case, I’m most commonly waiting for the E train at West 4th.
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I know two – maybe three – married couples who met on the train. In one case, they bonded over sheet music. In the second, they saw each other regularly over a series of commutes (same train/car each day kind of thing) before he made his move. And I can’t remember who the third couple is, but I’m pretty sure I know about one.