Pet Peeves

Dear Man In The Tan Jacket,

I would like to congratulate you.  It is a rare distinction you have claimed in my day, and I think that deserves some sort of public recognition, even if it be this semi-anonymous sphere. 

I’ve noticed you for a few weeks now, MitTJ.  You and your three buddies sit in the last 4-seater on the right hand side of the Crazy Train and basically act like the oldest high school sophomore in the state.  It’s remarkable really, how you manage to harness that aimless, vapidly cruel humor of 15-year-olds so effortlessly, and still manage to hold down a job like a real grown up.  Like that morning you tore up a receipt that you found in your pocket and threw little balls of paper at your chum who was sleeping in the seat across from you.  Or when you mocked your female friend’s choice of pants.  For twenty minutes.  It’s great that you can also find friends to share your brand of humor.  And who clearly share the same hearing difficulties, considering how loudly you all insist on speaking.  Perhaps you are just so full of exuberance to be traveling!  On a train!  To Boston!  I can understand that.  Though my excitement tends to manifest itself in sitting or standing quietly and reading my book, or looking out the window.  But you, you are one-of-a-kind. 

Now, I don’t have many pet peeves.  But…no, wait. 

That’s a lie. 

I have enough pet peeves to open a peeve menagerie.  I could run an “adopt a peeve” program and give them away, but we’ve lived this long together and I don’t think I could adjust to life without them.  They keep me company and inspire me to write blog posts like this.

Anyways…

One of my biggest pet peeves is People Who Yawn Out Loud (Also known as the Singing Yawn).  It’s been with me since I was in grade school, and whenever I meet a person who considers themselves and their biological functions so singularly significant that they feel the need to broadcast their autonomic functions with a seal-like wail or a hawk-like peel of vocalization, it makes me want to punch things.  The louder the yawn, the longer its duration, the harder I want to punch things; the more it matters that I punch something.

And you, MitTJ, you averaged a 15-second yowl this morning.  How do I know it was 15-seconds long, you might ask?  I timed them.  All eight of them. 

You must be exhausted!  Clearly, if you work as hard as your job as you work on the train to earn the ire and  heavy, ostentatious sighs you received today from your fellow passengers, you clearly must be completely worn out by the end of the day.  And I can only hope you are as successful at your real job.  Because if the number of fiery stares and head shakes you received today—earned between your above-mentioned howling and your seemingly endless objectification of your co-worker during the trip to Boston—were any indication, you truly have a brilliant career before you.  Remember that part of the trip when you decided you were a mime and started waving to everyone?  That was excellent, and totally a joke you needed to continue all the way from the train to the subway platform.  Everyone had a very passionate reaction to that.  I actually thought the people sitting across from you were going to forcibly hurl you from the moving train by the time we reached Chelsea, but the train was a little too crowded to get the proper leverage.  Maybe next time.

I am just grateful I was nearby to witness this feat of juvenile self-absorption.  Where was I, you ask?  I was the chick leaning against the wall directly ahead of you because there weren’t enough seats.  Thank you by the way, for not offering me a seat.  A guy on the Green Line did that for me later, and it totally made him look like an honorable gentleman.  It would have ruined your image, and, thus, my whole day, if you had acknowledged the presence of another human on the train.  I was the one in the red scarf banging her head against the wall with increasing force, praying desperately for unconsciousness before your next yawn claimed you. 

So congratulations, MitTJ, for being named The Most Annoying Commuter I Have Ever Encountered.  It’s a rare honor, and, considering the number of utter whackos I’ve met in my time, quite an accomplishment.  It is a title awarded based not only on the volume and repetitive nature of your offenses, but also on the presumption that I will get to see you every morning for a very long time.  I will spend the rest of my day hoping and praying to whatever Deity appears to have a sense of humor that you are only working an internship with a clearly-stated end date, in advance of our next encounter, but should my plea come to no avail, have no worries that I’ll be waiting to congratulate you in person tomorrow morning.