Notes from Underground

“Didja' ever get one of them days when you should-a stayed in bed.” – Elvis Presley.

If this had been a movie, I would’ve met the love of my life.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a movie, it was a real life and so, no, I didn’t meet the future missus, but I am trying to extract a lesson from Saturday’s disastrous experience.

Okay, so what happened was one of my MeetUp groups was doing a tour of subway art, which is a great idea—no two ways about it.

There are so many amazing murals and sculptures in the New York City subway, but I’m usually too busy rushing someplace to stop and take a look.

The tour would be a great chance to slow down and view some of this fabulous work, while the group’s leader provided the background on the art work.

I was definitely into it when I signed up for the tour. In fact, I was disappointed when the event was postponed two weeks ago, and I made sure to get on the list when it was rescheduled.

But I woke up Saturday morning and I wasn’t feeling the love for this walking tour at all.

I’m taking a trip this week and I getting very agitated about the flying—like I always do—and I’m pretty sure this was the reason for my reluctance. I get real flaky (or flakier) when I have to fly.

But then I reminded myself that I’m historically hesitant to get out of my comfort zone and that most times when I do, I end up enjoying myself.

And we’re still in January. Are you going to violate your get-out-there resolution so soon?

So, I went and looking back, I amazed at all the self-sabotaging stunts my subconscious mind cranked out to put a wallop on this event.

First, I went to the wrong stop. Instead of looking at the directions on the group’s site, I decided I knew how to get to the meeting place and I ended up being forced to take the local one stop back.

I still arrived with plenty of time to spare. Maybe too much time. I’m not sure what was going on, but I was standing with a large group of people, but I wasn’t connecting with anyone on any level.

I didn’t want to get sick before my trip and it turned out that I was the only one in a group of 20-odd people wearing a mask.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

But it was more than the mask. Some part of me just flat out didn’t want to be there.

I have this happen a few times before---what I call my “check the boxes” mentality where I go to some event to satisfy my socializing requirements but all I do is show up with interacting with other humans. And that’s what happened on Saturday.

Finally, we got going and saw some very nice murals in the Jay Street station before going to Fulton Street to the 1913 Marine Grill murals by Frederick Dana Marsh, which were originally in a basement restaurant of the McAlpin Hotel on Herald Square.

Thankfully, the developer converting the hotel to condos agreed at the last minute to preserve them.

At this point, our guide said the tour would end at 53rd Street and Lexington Avenue, something that caught me completely by surprise.

And that’s because—once again-I failed to read the description and wrongly assumed we were sticking around Brooklyn, which is my neck of the woods.

Of course, you’re free to bail the tour at any time—it’s not like hitching up for the army—but I was shocked at carelessness.

On top of everything else, I started feeling the call of nature, only to be told there wouldn’t be a bathroom break for another 90 minutes.

There was no way my antique plumbing was going to last that long, so that’s when I decided it was time for me, my weak kidneys, and my really bad attitude to split.

It wasn’t right that I was bringing such bad energy to the group. People had signed up for have a good time, not to hang some miserable masked man.

Enough already. I let them get ahead of me, then double-timed over to the Oculus to use the facilities and making what should have been a short trip home.

What followed, however, was an epic voyage that would’ve horrified Odysseus, as the subways worked their old black magic on me in the form of signal failures and inconceivably long wait times.

It was so bad I almost got over my fear of flying and I kept thinking that if the New York City subway system were a painting it would be Edvard Munch’s The Scream.

I gave up at Ninth Street, took to the streets and learned that (a) it was raining and (b) my umbrella was busted.

I finally staggered up to Fifth Avenue, got a ride from a local car service and fervently wished I had never left my house.

Of course, I nagged myself, saying if you had stayed with the tour, you wouldn’t be this mess and now God was punishing you.

I eventully got home having wasted a lot of time, energy and money and talking to virtually no one except for a brief exchange with the car service driver.>p> Next time I’ll listen to my instincts and stay the hell home.

The comfort zone isn’t always such a bad place. Especially when its raining.