Poked

"If I could call one last truce, we've given it all we've got. If we've got nothing left, this could be worth remembering with a smile upon my face." -- Brandi Carlile

Today was a rainy, snowy, rainy, snowy day in New York City. I love the rain and I love the snow, but the slippery sidewalks and unpredictable precipitation meant that two of my pet peeves monopolized the streets and eliminated any opportunity to enjoy the weather.

One of the annoyances -- slow-moving pedestrians who occupy most of the sidewalk and force me to break my stride -- has been discussed at length here. The other, luckily, only appears a few times a year: people who use umbrellas during a snowstorm. ('Snow' implies the solid form of water, people; suck it up and brush it off before it melts.)

It was snowing as I walked to the subway this morning -- and we're talking gorgeous, serene snow here, with big fat flakes that caught prettily in my hair as I walked. Of course, though, I was blessed with a double-whammy two blocks from the station: a large slow-moving man with an even larger umbrella. I couldn't pass him because the sidewalk was too narrow and too poorly shoveled, I couldn't even see beyond him because of the vastness of his umbrella, and I couldn't yell at him to move because our shared path was too icy to warrant it. Thus, I shuffled along behind him, growing increasingly more frustrated with every stunted step.

We reached the steps up to the subway platform and he closed his umbrella. However, instead of carrying it in front of him like a civilized person, he held it parallel to the ground with the sharp pointed end facing me. He then decided to swing his arms wildly as he climbed the stairs, and said umbrella point stabbed me squarely in the left thigh.

"Excuse me!" I yelled. He turned his head a fraction, pretended not to hear me, swung his arm again, missed me by inches. "EXCUSE ME!" I yelled again, and he turned and glared at me. "Watch the umbrella!"

He rolled his eyes and continued to mount the stairs even more slowly than before. He then "accidentally" misplaced his Metrocard as I waited to swipe through the turnstile after him, miraculously located it when I switched to a different turnstile, half-sprinted to ensure that he was in front of me as I climbed the second set of stairs to the platform, and stole the corner seat I was eyeing practically out from under me.

By the time I exited the subway near my office, the snow had turned to rain.