Airing it Out

On the years when I am good Santa (cleverly disguised as my mother) brings me new underwear. If, like this past year, I’m super good and Santa is able to make the four hour journey to the mall I get a box filled with new extreme low rise panties from Victoria’s Secret because these are the only underwear on the planet that are cute and fun and comfy and do not stick out over the top of my pants most of which sit casually on my hips because the world does not make pants that fit both my hips and my waist at the same time. When I opened this gift a couple of weeks ago I pulled out a bevy of boyshorts in blue and pink and gray and one pair in red tartan with “take my photo” scrawled in cursive across the butt. Always a fan of ass graffiti I was thrilled that Mama Clause had finally seen the message baring potential of my rear end. Sadly when I offered kudos for this huge fashion leap she demurred, claiming that Papa Clause had rushed her out of the store and had she seen that “ridiculous” message there is no way she’d have ever purchased the underwear. I think it’s sad that mom has yet to embrace her inner J-Lo.

The cruel trick of owning cute underwear is that unlike the smart gray sweater I also got for Christmas or the sexy gold shoes I bought in September or the awesome “Math: Get Sum!” button that my friend Joe gave me last spring I rarely get to show it off due to a distinct lack of pantsless opportunities in my life. This is especially disappointing when the panties in question use my behind as a billboard. A billboard with no one to read it is a sad and lonely piece of marketing. But luckily, on Saturday my personal mobile messaging system was given an opportunity to communicate with the outside world thanks to Improv Everywhere’s No Pants 2K8.

No Pants Day has been taking place on the New York City subway every January for the past 7 years but this was my ass’s first time to get out and mingle. Not content to mingle alone we roped Kajal and the pooper (aka her fetus who is so far having a no pants life) into attending with us. 900 other people (most of whom you’ll be shocked to hear were far far geekier than Kajal and I) joined us so in addition to our cute boyshorts the subway was packed full of boxers, bikinis and tighty whities.

The plan was for us to break into groups of 25 or so and spread out over the train cars. Once we boarded the subway people would begin taking off their pants in even smaller groups (starting with one guy at the first stop), get off the subway and wait for the next train. My nerves kicked in as soon as the doors closed on the stop before we were set to bare our asses especially since Kajal and I were the first girls in our car to stand and drop trow. No Pants day was a bit of a sausage fest and Kajal and I had speculated while waiting to board the train that this was because boxers were much less revealing than women’s panties but as I sat on the subway with a depantsed man standing in front of me I quickly realized that going pantsless with penis was much more dangerous than standing around in my underwear. I am thankful to not have to worry about any of my bits falling out. I couldn’t chicken out now so off the pants came and frankly, once you get them off, the rest is easy.

As Kajal and I waited on the platform for the next train she pulled out her lotion and began applying it to her eczema. I cannot articulate how hot it is to see a pantsless pregnant lady applying cream to her dry skin. I had to fight the men off in order to preserve her marriage. The pooper and his daddy better thank me for keeping their family intact.

A couple of observations on the state of underwear in America:

1. There were a number of girls trying to rock boxers which was obviously some serious cheating and also not anywhere near as cute as my boyshorts and knee highs combo. Knee highs were surprisingly popular for the women in attendance -- one assumes that, like me, the other girls still like to save their ankles for their husband’s eyes only. Who says we live in an amoral society?
2. If the boxer clad men I spied are any indication of status quo then the boys I date have super good taste in underwear. Today I saw way too many cartoon character themed pairs of boxers. SpongeBob on your junk or Oscar the Grouch on your ass is not hot. I also saw an entire group of boys who had chosen to pull their boxers up into an impromptu thong-like contraption that frankly may have burnt my eyes out of my skull.

It is somewhat shocking how boring sitting on the subway in your underwear can be, especially when there is little to no reaction to your half naked booty. I know New Yorkers are jaded and nonplused but I think I witnessed a new plane of blasé. After 2 stops of pantless mass transit a father and his 10 year old son boarded the train which caused me to internally start freaking out about the possibility that the father might be seriously upset that his child was seeing me in all my naked thighed glory. I need not have worried. The ten year old didn’t even comment on the almost nudity around him! I assure you that if, at 10, I had so much as glimpsed panties in public I would still be talking about it today. But I grew up in the backwoods where people still pretend clothing is not in any way removable.

Our sojourn took us via the 6 train from City Hall up to 96^th street and back down to Union Square. We were instructed to pretend that we didn’t know any of the other pantsless freaks and if approached make crazy claims like, “Yeah, I forgot my pants, it’s a little cold” but short of a few catcalls no one talked to me(except for Kajal who I can’t just sit next to and not chat with, be realistic.). I believe there was some no pants after partying in Union Square but by then Kajal was both starving (having not eaten in over 20 minutes which I believe is the longest she can go without throwing sustenance at the parasite) and suffering from the effects of having a fetus kick her bladder for 2 hours. So we had our own post party at Veselka where the other patrons (whether they knew it or not) were disappointed that the two girl at the back table chose to wear pants to dinner.

Getting There

I love the subway. I love not having to think about driving or parking. I love being given a structured opportunity to catch up on podcasts and books and video games. I love the cast of New York characters that the subway parades in front of me everyday. I love not having thought about the concept of a designated driver in 3 years. I love the free morning papers. Like any good cynic I do a fair bit of cursing at slow trains and rude passengers but ultimately when I think about moving back to California the thought that pops into my head is, “But I have great friends here! And my job is good! And the subway is so awesome!” If I do move away some day I will likely spend the remainder of my days annoying my new neighbors with constant reminiscing about the NYC subway.

My morning commute starts at the last stop on the N/W line, living near the last stop is a mixed blessing – on the one hand there is usually a train sitting in the station with ample seating available but you pay for this luxury on the way home when the train often sits on the tracks between Astoria Blvd and Ditmars Blvd for 5-10mins while waiting for a free spot to open up at the end of the line.

This morning I was cursed with bad subway luck. Regardless of what you non-New Yorkers have heard the worst case scenario subway situation doesn’t involve robbery, murder or being accosted by some teenager selling candy for his “basketball fieldtrip.” No, despite the prevalence of mysterious dripping liquids, rats, and bottles full of urine the worst thing that can happen to you in the subway station is watching the back of your train pull out of the station just as you set your feet on the platform. I’m so focused on trying to avoid this dire situation that I often find myself walking to the subway thinking “what if the train is there now? Or now? OR NOW? – Must walk faster.” Obviously this is ridiculous – the lack of any set train schedule means that the odds of a train arriving NOW or 5mins from now are essentially equal, which means that half of the time my speed walking results in spending more time chilling at the subway station. This morning was one of the times when speed did not work in my favor -- instead of settling into my seat to start another morning of sucking at crosswords on my DS (Another D-? F-you New York Times.) I was forced to stand around in the cold staring longingly at the butt of the leaving N train.

When the next train arrived I was able to snag a seat on the bench next to a guy in a bright orange camo hunting cap and a very chic hipster girl in a pumpkin colored coat and green boots both of which I coveted. There are two kinds of seat on NYC subway trains, benches and buckets. The buckets are highly superior because they hold your ass in place; when on a bench seat you’re constantly slip sliding into your co-riders. I didn’t feel too bad about getting close to Miss Pumpkin (maybe some of her style would rub off on me…) but the unplanned cuddling with the urban hunter was less pleasant.

The N line runs above ground in Queens which I usually feel is a negative since the train is loud and ugly and waiting for it at the outside stations exposes one to the elements but it’s hard to be too down on the el when staring out the window as the morning breaks over the Triborough bridge. It’s one of those magnificent New York views that leaves me amazed that human’s can build cities.

At the Broadway stop a very hot boy boards the train and stands right above me (riding the subway quickly desensitizes one to the weirdness of having someone’s crotch positioned only 6 inches from your face, I am well prepared if life takes a turn for the worst and I have to make a go of it on the streets…). He has on some fancy jeans which I guarantee coast more than $200, this along with the eyes he’s making at his a less cute but equally well dressed male travel companion lead me to believe that he would not be interested in checking out my rack (pity, it looked nice today and all he’d have to do is glance downward). When I glance downward I notice that hot guy is wearing old school 70s style hiking boots (brown suede, red laces, forced onto my feet by my hippy parents for at least 10 years of my childhood, apparently known as “wafflestompers”) and now I have to wonder if someone is actively trying to make these into a trend – are ugly hiking boots the next trucker hats?

By the time we reach Queensborough Plaza the train is stuffed full of mothers, hipsters, working shlubs, butchers, bankers and candle stick makers. The subway is the great equalizer and often leaves me glowing a bit with a new love for humanity – if grocery stores bring out the bad in New Yorkers riding mass transit together makes us all a little more angelic. I witness more random acts of kindness on the subway than anywhere else. From giving directions to helping mother’s lug strollers up flights of stairs to handing out change to the homeless more often than not I come off of the subway loving my neighbors even if I am left with the imprint of someone’s ass on my shoulder after having said ass forcefully stamped into my flesh for 25 minutes.

Subway routes are very Manhattan centric which means that to get from Astoria to Dumbo I have to enter the island on the N train and traverse the tunnels beneath Herald Square in order to make my transfer to the Brooklyn bound F train. As you can see on the above map (made by my friend Giselle who is AWESOME), this switch is a less than direct route inside of a larger less than direct route. Traversing the 34^th street station requires a long hike reminiscent of climbing Everest, I have often has to leave gasping and wheezing companions for dead on the sides of the trail. I’ll always miss them but I have to get to work (little does the boss know how much I sacrifice for the biweekly paycheck).

I really hate switching trains and will often walk long distances pre-subway ride in an effort to avoid it (god bless hopstop and it’s “More street walking fewer transfers” setting). Sadly there is no way to avoid my daily transfers to and from work and so I have done the next best thing – memorized the optimal route from train 1 to train 2. This requires one to be on the exact right subway car on train 1 so that the doors open next to the stairs that lead up to the shortest possible path to the down stairway that will drop me off next to the car that will deliver me as close as possible to the door leading out of the subway station at my final destination. I am ridiculously proud of how much this system increases my subway transfer efficiency.

My subway enemies are the V, Q and R trains which run on the same tracks as the F and N lines and often trick me into thinking my train is coming when in fact one of these loser lines that won’t take me to work or home is showing up. Luckily this morning I made a smooth transition from N to F without any intervening V trains. I catch the F train towards Brooklyn on its way out of the city and board the last car so there are always ample seating options. This morning I made an effort to notice what was going on around me on the train (as opposed to most mornings when I focus very hard on getting lost in my own world). The Subway Emergency instructions posted in every car ask that in the case of fire, medical emergency or crime you refrain from pulling the emergency brake which makes me wonder what the emergency brake cord is for besides tempting hoodlums to annoying pranks.

The F train rockets me through lower Manhattan passing through my favorite subway station at Delancey. The MTA has commissioned artists to decorate each station with its own mosaic and Delancey is blessed with a huge iridescent rainbow trout which on top of just being pretty reminds me of my trout fishing filled childhood. After Delancy it’s only two stops to work and the end of another subway commute. The entire adventure takes 45 minutes to and hour which is about 20 minutes longer than I’d like (the ideal commute time being about 30mins which allows for ample reading time without feeling like I’m wasting hours of my life in transit). For unknown reasons doing the reverse every night on the way home is an hour at best but I’ll spare you the details.