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.
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