slew of words

I woke up Wednesday morning to the incessant beeping of my alarm and a pool of my own sweat. It was another day of over 90 degree weather (“feels like 96” they say) in Boston and the shower I had taken before going to bed was irrelevant.

Turning the shower knob barely past freezing, I tried tricking my body into thinking it had just completed a Polar Plunge. The mildew fused to the shower liner bothered me more than usual in my irritable state and the pool of water gathering around my ankles due to the pile of female hair clogging the drain was a shade of light brown. In and out was my plan of attack but the second I started moving around, I started to sweat once again.

Reaching for the outfit I had picked out the night before, I pull my linen pants over my butt that seemed to expand with the heat. Then maneuvering my tank top over my wet hair I realize that the gap between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my pants is much larger than I remembered… Too large to be considered work appropriate. I switch it for another blouse that I like less and feel highly unsatisfied with my ensemble now, but do not have time to rethink.

I leave my apartment within the usual timeframe but somehow missed one subway and need to wait 10 minutes for the next. The underground tunnel is so stifling hot that sweat begins pooling on my upper lip and forehead (hence the reason I gave up wearing my foundation within the second week of working here). When the train finally arrives, it is filled with every other individual who was running a few minutes behind and now I was pressed against sweaty strangers. The couple standing next to me seem to be having an argument and I keep shooting them dirty looks in the hopes they will pause their outburst until they are not touching me. They don’t.

My next subway is also later than normal which means I don’t have time to swing by Starbucks on my walk to the office. There are so many people trying to squeeze onto one train car that the little man dressed in a neon yellow vest has to come on the intercom and announce another train is right behind us. The door tries closing multiple times but each attempt catches a backpack or a briefcase or an arm. Finally it successfully shuts without dismembering a passenger and we shoot down the tunnel.

I make the three minute walk from South station to my office and need to breathe. I am sweaty, I am tired, and I am unhappy. Time to sit at my desk for eight hours.