I have to admit, I didn't know who you were at first. I just thought you were some random, really really well dressed guy without a wedding ring on. I thought you were smiling at me because you thought I was cute, too. But no. You thought I recognized you as Ron Huberman. Actually, my friend had whispered in my ear, "That's Ron Huberman!"
You were so pretty, I just wanted to cry. And you were actually riding the train to see how the slow zones were doing!! That was so cute. So adorably diligent.
It was so nice that you took the time to talk to us and ask our opinions about the redline. And told us when the brown line stop near my place would open back up.
I was totally unaware that your young age was a source of some criticism, otherwise I never would have asked you how old you were. I was just asking to see if you and I were age appropriate for each other. And you seemed to sort of like talking to my friends and me. You thought we had cool jobs.
During the walk home, I thought about your really nice arms. And your really pretty smile. And that you were young, and the president of the CTA. And the fact that you used to be a cop. I thought about how the name Grace Huberman sounded.
Then I went home and googled you. And I found out that you were instrumental to the creation of I-Clear. Well, sugar. That sealed the deal.
I vowed to send you a little note, and invite you out to lunch. But even more so, I vowed to be a CTA rider forever. We never got that far, did we?
Well, my sweet, love is a fickle thing. We have to break up. I am so sorry to do this on a blog, but it really seems the most practical way, seeing as we don't really know each other.
I'm leaving you for the Metra.
On Friday, I was running late. I was going to take the bus to the redline, but the CTA Bus Tracker (which is still an awesome idea, my darling) told me I would have to wait 19 minutes for my bus. I did the math in my head. 19 minutes waiting for the bus. 8 minutes on the bus, probably about 5 minutes waiting for the El. 30 minutes on the el. 5 minute walk to work. 63 minutes. And probably having to stand the whole time because there will be no available seats.
It didn't seem like I had any other choice. I had been hesitant to try the Metra, as it seemed complicated. And different. And mysterious. but it seemed like if I didn't want to be embarrasingly late, I would have to take a chance.
I got on. I got a seat. The seat was VERY well-cushioned. 14 minutes later, I get off. I walk a few blocks and get to work with a minute or two to spare.
It was QUIET, Ron. It was clean, Ron. It didn't smell like the urine of an alcoholic, Ron. There were no homeless people yelling at themselves. There was no one asking me for money. There was no one casually leafing through a RedEye while holding his urine sample
Of course, there were loud talkers. They are everywhere. But they didn't really bother me as much. Their voices sort of blended in with the mellow hum of the speeding engine which sounded like a symphony of purring kittens and gratuitous compliments.
And yes, of COURSE, I'll miss the homeless ladies masturbating. Of COURSE I'll miss the drunken asshole Cubs fans coming in from the suburbs. Of course I'll miss being packed in a hot car with 5,0000 other miserable commuters, stopped somewhere between Belmont and Fullerton for what seems like hours for no apparent reason.
I am so sorry that it has to end like this, Ron.
Now, the Metra is my Boo.