Often it is with my physical appearance. My skin is dry, or I have a pimple, or my outfit makes me look like I stepped out of 1998. And suddenly the headlines start screaming at me, scrolling across my brain as I lock the door behind me and step into the elevator.
"The Associated Press confirmed this morning that Marian Vespers, aged 25 (oh god, really?), was struck by a car on her way to a hijacked subway train on the morning of the worst terrorist attack in history."
"Her mother was unable to find any attractive snapshots of her to give to the AP. So we, unfortunately, can only run this photo of a slightly overweight, squinty eyed girl without the slightest bit of beauty in her face."
More often, not only does my physically appearance horrify me, but I find that I have a pain in my chest, or near my groin, or at my temple. Heart attack, ovarian cancer, brain tumor. I stay away from the PDR but it doesn't help. I know I have all these diseases. I smoke (I know, I shouldn't) and no smoker is less carefree than me. Perhaps it was that cigarette last Tuesday that finally did me in, allowing me a week to say the goodbyes I neglected to say. Perhaps it was that 4th glass of wine this weekend that finally killed my hippocampus.
If, and this is rare, I actually make it all the way to the subway without any skin troubles or blood clots, waiting for the train always get me in the end. Should I get on the crowded train? Isn't it always the crowded trains that crash? The cars remind me of the journey to Aushwitz--surely I should not die being shat on by a man bound for the Financial District. And yet the empty train that follows seems ominous--why is this car so empty during rush hour?
I spend the 4-minute train ride rigid, upright, and frantically typing away on my Blackberry. By the time I get to work, my makeup has melted off.
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