Ah, Moose and Alasdair.
You know who they are, right?
“You Can’t Do That On Television”?
Pretty much one of the best shows ever made. I lament that Nickelodeon doesn’t do marathons of this show. (Note: The Saturday they decide to, though, don’t call me. Don’t text me. I won’t be on Facebook or Twitter. I’ll be right in front of my Man TV soaking up every minute.)
Fans of YCDTOTV will remember a sketch they did every week called “The Opposites.” In that sketch, of course, parents didn’t make you do homework, and you got to stay up as late as you wanted or eat Barfy Burgers for breakfast. Beautiful.
Unless you’re running late for work and you get on a train going the wrong direction. Like I did today.
I’ve been doing this Metro routine every day for almost two years now. I leave the PG on the Green Line, I transfer to Red at Fort Totten or Gallery Place-Chinatown, and I’m done. This pattern gets repeated daily, reversed on the way home. It’s not new, or foreign.
Today, I got off the train at Gallery Place and rode the escalator up. Imagine my little commuter joy when I saw a train actually pulling in as I got to the platform. I got on the train, still listening to my iPod, still thinking about my day, still operating normally.
Until I realized I was at Union Station. And my stop is Farragut North.
I’d gone two stops … in the wrong direction.
How? How in the world did this happen? I’ve done this, every day, in some fashion, for almost two years. I could do this in my sleep, or so I thought. But today, in what I can only figure was walking sleep … I got on the train, and went two stops, in the opposite direction of work.
Amused, yet really pissed off, at myself, I updated my Facebook status to reflect the boner of the week. Responses went from blaming my hectic work schedule, to “doh,” to a belief my subconscious was trying to tell me something. Who knows? But then my friend Julie said I should just make today opposite day.
When I talked to her tonight, I again ranted about how I can’t believe it happened — I’m legend for my sense of direction. If I’ve been somewhere once, you could blindfold me and drop me down 100 miles away and I could almost, by sixth sense, find my way back. (It’s not just a clever nickname to call me “Rain Man,” as they do back home — she was actually calling me to quiz me about airport codes. That’s right. The three-letter airport codes. I batted 1.000)
“I love it, because it shows you’re a human like the rest of us,” she said. “You’re not totally superhuman!”
I guess it’s sweet people think I’m some kind of superhuman, but I’m also enough of my grandmother’s granddaughter to be sure that at the tender age of 31 (and 20 days) I’ve come down with some kind of brain disorder or dementia.
I think ever since my father had his brain hemorrhage (also almost two years ago now), brain issues have been in the back of my mind. I was telling the Paiges (Original and Other, at different points) that I feel like I’m losing it sometimes … I’m disconnected, I’m unfocused. Am I stressed out? Maybe. Am I dying? Aren’t we all?
But, at least it made for a good story when I got in. And I hope the guy who saw me squint, sigh and say “Oh, f-ck me!” when I realized I was at Union Station got a good laugh out of it. I did, as soon as the whole being pissed at myself thing wore off.
Lesson to self: Look at the train’s destination before you hop on. Even if you’re sure you know where you’re going.
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