So the other day on my commute into the city for work, I was kind of involved in a sordid ménage à trois.
It started off innocently enough, with a single Twitter-documented romance:
And then it quickly became a soap opera. But I’m getting ahead of myself, so allow me to backtrack for just a moment.
After I sent that last tweet, I quickly assigned my new love interest an imaginary identity in which:
- he moved to Connecticut from somewhere in Ireland when he was a child,
- eventually got his MBA at Columbia,
- now works in finance,
- and, while on our train ride together, was en route to the city for a job interview with a company that’s trying to schmooze him into leaving his current six-figure gig,
because he’s that sought-after.
As his book rested on my knee, I may or may not have had a (totally awake) dream sequence involving us going into the train bathroom together.
This proved to be a big mistake, because:
- it was really just wrong on a number of levels, and
- those bathrooms are tiny and disgusting, so
- there’s a good chance he would have dropped his inhaler into the toilet while we were consummating our relationship,
- and then the fantasy turned into a nightmare when it ended with him having a post-train-sex asthma attack and was forced to save himself with a disgusting train-passenger-waste-infected inhaler, and
- it was all my fault.
Sometime around #4 is when I realized that I really need to save me from myself. (Are post-train-sex asthma attacks even a thing? If you’ve ever dated someone with asthma, please share your thoughts below, as I’d like to be prepared for what my future holds with Irish Job Seeker.)
Anyway. What I didn’t mention in the above tweets is that I was actually sitting in the middle of Irish Job Seeker and another suited businessman of about thirty whom I will refer to as Sexy Elbow Man, because he happened to fall asleep with his elbow digging into my left side — and that’s when I fell in love with him too — and I think I need to stop telling this story right now, because I can’t decide if it’s making me look like the creepiest person ever or just the most desperate (I think creepiest is winning so far, but not by much), but it’s definitely not making me look like someone who should be allowed to exist in society unmonitored.
Regardless, I think you’ll agree that between Irish Job Seeker’s book on my knee and Sexy Elbow Man’s elbow in my side, the whole thing was pretty much an intense train-threesome.
Who knew I was into that?
P.S. While I’d like to think these men kept touching me because I’m irresistible, my low self-esteem is inclined to believe that it’s probably more so because my fatness takes up so much space that they simply couldn’t make a single move without inadvertently making contact with some body part of mine. But whatever, I’ll take what I can get at this point.
P.P.S. Judging from that last sentence, it looks like most desperate is the winner!
P.P.P.S. “Winner” is definitely not the right word. There are clearly no winners in this blog post.
P.P.P.P.S. …except for Irish Job Seeker. He’s obviously at a high point in both his personal life and career, having train-threesomes and being schmoozed by competing employers and all. He is a winner.
P.P.P.P.P.S. I just remembered about the post-train-sex asthma attack, and we’re back to having no winners.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I’m finally done.