I never in a zillion years thought I’d be a Septa commuter. Especially, when six months ago I was living in San Diego, managing a women’s sober living home, and happily attending a daily Bikram practice. My oh my how things have changed. 360 degrees.
Since I’ve landed my corporate headhunting gig in Center City Philadelphia, I have become one of the throes of commuters who purchases a monthly rail pass and wearily awaits for the arrival of the 7:10 R5. Walking onto the train each morning I survey who looks like the least likeliest to strike up a morning conversation. The last thing I want to do is converse with someone that I don’t know first thing in the morning. Ironic, I call people daily that I don’t know to recruit them for executive posts, but this is different. This is actually having a human connection with a stranger that most likely I won’t derive any real benefit from. Yes, I am self-centered to the extreme. One of the wondrous benefits of being a Septa commuter is that you don’t have to talk to anyone, let alone look at them, and you don’t feel guilty. Perfect. The City of Brotherly Love is alive and kicking. Now don’t get me wrong, its not like everyone sneers and rolls their eyes at each other, its just that its understood. Its understood that you don’t need to make nice nice to your fellow commuters and you feel okay about it.
Often when I’m sitting on the train and watching the morning rush stampede on board, I like to purvey my peers on their style and fashion sense. I get tips, see what works, what looks awful and also get to realize that my own fashion style isn’t too shabby. Considering, I’ve turned into the flat shoed walker to and from the station to the office and then back again to the station. A pair of high fashion heels await me in my lower drawered filing cabinet. I justify my lack of daily Bikram to the fact that I exercise my walk of six city blocks round trip and that burning calories that way is the best I can do. My daily 10-12 hour work days exhaust me and Bikram is now a weekly Saturday ritual where I can revert back to my Zen ways of a lost Southern California lifestyle and I remember that the grass is always greener.