The other day I was looking back at some old posts. Specifically, the one about the time I saw my hot would-be husband (affectionately named Lenovo Guy) on the Metro-North train twice in one week but couldn’t bring myself to talk to him because Lenovo computers are the devil and for some reason hot would-be husbands always render me mute. It made me think to myself, wow, if only something mildly interesting like that would happen to me again, maybe I’d have something better to write about than my recent desperation (not that my recent desperation hasn’t resulted in some lovely material, as Not OK, Cupid can clearly attest).
Inexplicably, my wish for a blog-worthy debacle has been granted. And it happened on the Metro-North. Again.
It all went down last Thursday night when I had to work past my usual dinnertime. By the time I left the office, I was hungry enough to eat a manila folder with a side of paper clips, so I knew that picking up some food pre-train would be essential. I stopped at Chipotle for a to-go burrito bowl and hauled ass to Grand Central just in time to snag a cozy three-seater all to myself.
As I settled in and prepared for a glorious moment of burrito bowl-mastication, I reached into the Chipotle bag to discover that there was no fucking fork. (Do you love the alliteration?)
It took a moment for the reality to set in that I was on a train about to depart for forty minutes of express transit to Connecticut with absolutely no fork-acquiring opportunities in sight, but once it did, I panicked. I felt like growing a loaded pistol for a hand, holding the entire train hostage, and maybe shooting bullets at the ceiling to scare people — all while sob-screaming at the top of my lungs like a crazy subway platform person about how life is unfair, the government is trying to exterminate giraffes, and anyone in possession of a fork must relinquish it to me NOW and no one will get hurt.
One might say that hunger makes me mentally unstable.
My inner tantrum came to a relieving halt when I got distracted by a hot guy who jumped into the train right as the doors were closing. As I creepily watched him scan the rows for an empty seat, I noticed that he looked very familiar — like I had known him in a past life. Or was it a dream?
Then it hit me. It wasn’t a past life or a dream — it was Ok-fucking-Cupid. I had sent this guy a message three weeks ago.
His response? The dreaded blue.
Yup. I had chosen this dumbass as one of the few OkCupid users actually worth me risking rejection (which we all know I handle about as well as a toddler) for, and he shot me down. And I had no fork.
(My ability to not cry at this point should be applauded.)
Then he sat next to me. Of course.
I decided to bury myself in a book, hoping that Hot Guy Who Rejected Me wouldn’t take a second look in my direction. Then I totally caught him glancing at me four times. (Not that I was keeping a running tally on my BlackBerry or anything. But I might have been.)
I started thinking oh, my God he recognizes me, how humiliating; and I really hope the view from the corner of his eye doesn’t involve me having a double chin.
Then the train broke down. And the lights went out. And so did the air conditioning.
The loss of A/C made me sweat profusely while Hot Guy Who Rejected Me, from what I could ascertain from the corner of my eye, stayed magically dry and gorgeous. Prick.
Meanwhile, my burrito bowl was slowly dying and it kind of smelled.
Thankfully, the train was back up and running within twenty minutes. But as luck would have it, our car remained void of A/C. The conductor made an announcement that it was not coming back for us and we could walk up to other, cooler cars if not soaking in one’s own perspiration was a personal priority.
Hot Guy Who Rejected Me stayed put in spite of the heat, and for a moment it made me wonder if maybe he wasn’t repulsed by me after all. I longed to ask him so many questions. Questions about the reasoning behind his choice to ignore my message, how fat he thought I was on a scale of one to ten, and — perhaps most importantly — whether or not he happened to have a fork on him.
I remained silent instead, determining that he was probably only staying seated not because he wants to marry me but because he’s not human and doesn’t sweat.
When I got home later that night, I was mortified to look in the mirror and discover that there was major pit-stainage on my shirt that Hot Guy Who Rejected Me definitely saw and probably judged me for.
But then I got over it as I opened my kitchen drawer and pulled out a fork in excited preparation to eat the burrito bowl that was now sweaty, mangled, and of an awkward temperature. The burrito bowl that was still delicious anyways. The burrito bowl that had patiently stuck with me throughout this entire ordeal, and never decided that I wasn’t good enough.
Whoever said “food isn’t love” has clearly never been to Chipotle.