Spread Thin

I rode the subway back to Rachel's today after a second round interview at Synergos, running around Brooklyn to scope out four apartments, and some news from Raj. Bite-your-lip sort of news. All of this in heeled boots and an Ann Taylor grey pinstriped suit, but I suppose I became sufficiently used to that during bootcamp.

Having realized that the express trains make a worthwhile difference in travel time, my route home consisted of getting on the L at Bedford, switching to the 3 (express) shortly after, and switching to the 1 (local) at 96th Street, from which I disembarked at 231st Street, to the catch the the Bx20 to Rachel's apartment. (Only after writing that out did I realize how tedious that seems. It's not quite so bad as it sounds. Maybe.)

Seats were surprisingly available during the whole affair, with the notable exception of the ride on the 1, where I squeezed between a kind woman approximately my age, and a somewhat younger boy engrossed in a Gameboy-type gadget. When I asked if I could sit in between them, she said yes, and he gave me an unfriendly glance, topped off with a total lack of consideration by keeping his legs resolutely spread open.

What is with some men? Is it proof of masculinity, to keep your legs spread at greater than a 90 degree angle, proof that it's physically impossible for the aforementioned leg-spreader to be comfortable if they're any closer? Stupid boys with their stupid legs. The subway is crowded enough without their bad manners.