Why the season of winter is, to say the very least, the bane of my existence.

I refuse to accept that it is already chilly. In September. I simply refuse to accept it. And if I refuse to accept the arrival of chilly weather, I am confident that it will immediately be replaced by warmer climes. I mean, it was far too cold today. Scarily cool. As in, this weather is scaring me. If it's this cool in September, I shudder to think what December will bring. It makes me physically ill to consider a winter colder than last year's. For realz.

It's highly possible that I have seasonal affectiveness disorder. I say this in complete and utter seriousness. I become a grumpier, more morose person in colder weather. This may be due largely to the fact that I have so many unpleasant memories associated with last year's New York winter, such as The Great Subway Faceplant of '09. This is a terrifically embarrassing story and is, I now realize, therefore perfect for me to discuss here and now.

Ah, The Great Subway Faceplant. 'Twas an extraordinarily chilly day in December, and I was, of course, running late for work. My roommate and I still lived in Ridgewood, Queens (Never heard of it? That's because it's so ridiculously far east that it actually exists as a small island in the Atlantic Ocean), and I had to commute an hour to and from work. (THAT got old fast, lemme tell ya.) (I'm a big fan of parentheses. Lemme tell ya that, too.) Naturally, I quickly learned to plan my mornings so that I could literally roll out of bed, throw on my work clothes, brush my teeth, and dash out the door in approximately seventeen minutes. The subway closest to our apartment arrived at the station every ten minutes, at seven past. I had to make the 9:07 am train in order to get to work promptly at 10 am. This required me to leave the front door of our apartment no later than 9:03 am; this particular subway station was an outdoor one (God bless the M train), complete with steps not only leading up to the station itself but also with an extra set leading to the actual train once one had swiped his or her metrocard and gone through the turnstiles. (I should also mention at this point that I suffer from a few fundamental challenges, as varied as climbing stairs successfully--I don't pick up my feet enough, and I consequently trip pretty frequently--and forgetting to breathe. I do not know why this is.)

On this particular morning, I left the house at something like 9:05 am and was doing that awkward speed-walk thing to the subway station. (You know. We're talking just short of a pathetic jog but hurried enough that one feels the need to sigh audibly and impatiently when stuck behind leisurely-walking pedestrians.) As I swiftly climbed the first set of subway stairs, I could feel the station shudder as the train made its arrival. Already panting from the effort I'd exerted thus far, I hurriedly swiped my metrocard, hurtled through the turnstile, and attempted to run up the final set of steps leading to the train doors. (I am also an inherently nervous person. I live, in fact, in a low state of constant fear. Feel free to imagine my wind-blown hair, harried facial expression, and supreme inner anxiety at this moment in time.)

Just as I reached the second-to-last step, my legs decided to fail me. I was only feet away from the now-open subway doors: I could hear the announcer's voice announcing the stop; I could envision myself heroically crashing through the closing doors at the very last possible moment. Sadly, this was not to be the case. In all the excitement of the moment, I forgot to remind my brain to lift my knees high enough to crest the next stair, and I pitched forward onto the cement. Things seemed to be happening both very quickly and quite slowly: I was fully aware that I was about to fall face-forward onto the ground, and yet I had no time to even put a hand out to cushion the blow. I did a real, live, one-hundred-percent authentic faceplant. My body, now laid out across the ground, almost reached to the now-closed subway doors. My fingers were only inches away.

I heard horrified gasps from bystanders and from the subway conductor himself. The next few moments are hazy in my memory; I know that I got up far too quickly, refusing any of the profferred hands which were immediately and worriedly thrust into my face. I also know that the train conductor must have felt truly sorry for me, because he re-opened the train doors, allowing me to enter. (Was this my silver lining? If it was, the entire experience was in no way worth it. In no way.) As I quickly made my way to the very back of the subway car, eyes downcast in shame, people in my left and right peripharies were literally jumping to their feet, offering me their seats. This was how completely pathetic I appeared. (People don't give up their seats on trains, save for pregnant women and the very obviously physically disabled. And sometimes not even then.) Of course, I ignored them all. I took the only legitimately empty seat at the very end of the car, pulled my book out of my purse, and pretended to read vigorously. After an acceptable amount of time had passed, I dared to surreptiously assess my injuries. My hands were throbbing, and for good reason--they were scraped and bleeding and flecks of dirt and grit were in them. I'd also ripped a hole in my stockings, but the part of my skin visible through the sizeable hole showed no serious damage--or at least, no damage equal to the immense throbbing I felt in my knee. (It was only after I got to the restaurant and did a full and private assessment in the bathroom that I realized my stockings had gotten slightly rearranged in my fall; there was, indeed, a horribly large scrape on my knee--one that had bled profusely and in the meantime congealed to my tights. Mmm. Lovely. Peeling my tights off that open wound felt stupendous, lemme tell you.)

So, yes. I have good and plenty reasons to hate winter. And I will not accept that legit fall is upon us. I will not, I tell you. I deserve at least one more month of pleasant weather. I also deserve to never have to suffer another faceplant again, for as long as I live, subway or otherwise.

This blog thing. Yeah.

There's something weird about people blogging, if you think about it. I mean, we're talking about thousands and thousands of people (Hundreds of thousands? Millions? I never understood math. Or estimation.) who think they have worthwhile or significant things to tell their exceptionally eager readers. (And when I say "exceptionally eager," I mean, of course, "nonexistent.") And if there's something indubitable I've learned in my twenty-three years of life thus far, it's that people think far too highly of themselves. I'm guessing, then, that there's a whole lotta unread blogs littering the blogosphere. (Gah. I just used the word "blogosphere." Who am I? What have I become, six minutes into this? A great depression just came upon me.) (And yet...I continue.)

Anyways. Numerous people have been telling me that I need to start a blog, mostly because I moved to New York Cit-ay last September and have since then experienced several embarrassing and extraordinary things. Mostly embarrassing, I would say. This bloggy thing should be a great way to record those Fun Facts. I also enjoy the anonymity of blogging--I can write about people that drive me crazy and anger me and sadden me. And they'll never know! Because they'll never read it. Because no one cares about other people's blogs. Because people are inherently A.) selfish and B.) self-important. (See above.)

I sound reeeally jaded. And rude. Is this what New York has done to me? Add this to the list of vices I seem to daily be increasing in, including: profanity; alcohol consumption; and impatience. Vom.

So maybe I should recount today's awkward occurrence. Since that's the only thing of interest I have to offer, really. Here goes: Whilst walking home today along First Avenue, I managed to run a half block and catch a bus. (Awkward sitch in itself, really. I will die somewhat happily if I am never forced to view video footage of myself running, let alone running to catch a bus, purse and ponytail flailing behind me.) After plugging in and removing my metrocard, panting inattractively all the while, I made my way to the back door, where I could organize my fancy, pink, sequined wallet quietly and inobtrusively. Naturally, the bus driver chose to lurch away from the curb and hurtle into traffic at the exact moment when I was in that awful bus-limbo--walking down the aisle, but not holding onto any nearby pole or seat. The change from the coin-purse section of my wallet immediately went flying, scattering the floor of the bus with glittering currency. I could feel my cheeks burning. I could also feel everyone staring at me. Staring at me in that I-don't-really-care-what-happens-to-you-but-I'll-at-least-feign-interest-so-that-you-feel-sufficiently-embarrased New York sort of way, that is. I assessed the situation, saw that all of the change on the floor was either pennies or nickels (and therefore worthless), and decided to stare stoically ahead, cheeks aflame. This may have worked, had it not been for the kindly young man who decided to take pity upon me and crouch the next time the bus stopped, painstakingly scooping up my ridiculous coins. When he straightened up and handed them over to me with an earnest smile, I truly meant to say something along the lines of, "Oh, you really didn't have to do that. Thank you, though." Instead, however, I only managed to utter: "Oh, no." And nothing else. So this generous man probably considers me the rudest person he's met in a while. Rather than applauding his act of kindness, I somehow managed to make him feel as if he'd done something wrong. "Oh, no." Oh, no? Oh, no. Please don't tell me you've just picked up my change. How dare you. Oh, no. How could you? You complete moron.

Gaaah. This is my life. I swear that I'm missing some circuit which coordinates what one's brain actually wants to say and what comes out of one's mouth. This is the second time this has happened to me in a week. Last weekend, when I was working a brunch at the restaurant, I served a man his turkey club and asked him if he needed anything else. He nodded quickly and seemed about to say something, but then he did that silent burp thing that people do--do you know what I mean? There's no sound involved; it's like the polite version of the burp. But there's an unmistakable lowering of the head while swallowing, followed by a very short pause. Anyway. That's what this man did. After finishing his silent burp, he said, "Pardon me." (Which was polite of him, wasn't it? The word pardon doesn't get used enough, I think.) And then he followed that with, "I'd like a side of mayonnaise." Normally, I'd have nodded back to him, repeated what he wanted--"A side of mayonnaise. No problem!"--and made a swift and efficient trip to the kitchen to procure the necessary item. This time, however, I gave a quick nod and said, "Pardon mayonnaise. No problem!" And then I made a swift and efficient turn on my heel, headed to the kitchen. Mid-heel-turn I realized my mistake. I could feel my face morphing into a horrified expression, even as I couldn't help myself from repeating my idiotic mistake. Pardon mayonnaise? Really, Rachel? Fantastic. Lovely. You've got such a way with words. I ended up making the busboy bring the mayonnaise to the table, for fear I'd offended the man who'd asked for it. (Pardon mayonnaise? Seriously. Seriously?)

So, yeah. I say and do pleeeenty of awkward things. Excellent fodder for this blog, but kryptonite to my already pathetic social skills. Whatevs. I feel supremely confident in my lack of blog followers. Take that, blogosphere.