Gettin' low

I had my first New York low point.

Alright, it's not my first.

And certainly won't be my last, but it was a special kind of low that clearly needs sharing.

It was Thursday, 7:30. I had just forfeited my credit card to the most depressing New York Sports Club location (midtown West) - a narrow subterranean place that houses enough post-work tension to actually block natural light. It was September 30th, the last day to squeeze into a deal to join for $20, and with the gym's proximity to my work being inescapably convenient (and I do so want to spend as MUCH time as possible in midtown), I resigned myself to the inevitable.

But I was in a rush. Having fled work for the gym, and now the gym for the subway and what was to be my second attempt at a pre-marathon bikram yoga class, time was not on my side.

But my tum rumbled and the bikram class did not start until 8:15, spitting me out into the dark, all sweaty and starving, at 9:45.

I stopped into a vaguely-leftover-chinese-food-smelling corner deli to grab a Cliff bar (blueberry crisp) -- guaranteed satiation for a yoga class or, should the opportunity arise, a mountain climb.

I bopped and weaved out the deli and down the street to the subway that would take me to another subway that would take me to Williamsburg.

It was 7:40 and empty for a post-work commute. Not being able to wait, I fumbled for the Cliff bar packaging wavering between a rip-down-the-side and the potato-chip-bag opening. Deciding on the latter I pulled the two ends with full force and witnessed the granola-nugget launch out of the packaging and onto the subway platform 30 yards away like a faulty grenade.

And there it sat, all tasty and kind of sticky, on layers of New York history that comprised, at best, human bodily fluids, rat excrement and boat loads of garbage, taunting me. Without slowing down I bent over, picked up the target, placed it in my purse, bypassing the multiple garbage cans, and walked to the end of platform debating my dance with the unhygienic devil.

My belly rumbled as the subway screeched into the station. The doors opened, invited me in, and I took a seat on the wide, blue bench, clutching by bag like a stolen treasure. I made it one stop before I ripped a chunk of my sodden treat and popped it in my mouth, swallowing the morsel whole.

The mood in the train cab changed. The woman next to me shifted down a notch. The kid with the kid-sized backpack stopped talking to his buddy. The garbage-bag-guy at the other end of the car picked his shoulders up a bit seeing as his former roll as Most Desperate member of current society had recently found a new soul.

I didn't take another bite. I tried not to think of the bite I took. I made a list of slightly padded excuses in my head should anyone following this pathetic show ask what the hell I was thinking:

I hadn't eaten all day
It was my last two dollars
It barely touched the ground

All of these things were false. But I digested that bite. I got off the subway at my designated stop. I threw the evidence in the first garbage can. Stopped into Ed's Crazy Corner Deli, picked up a substitute and walked away from the whole situation.

And I'm still breathing. I didn't even puke or anything. I hit a low New York point and I survived. If I can eat a treat off of the subway floor and live through the night to blog about it, I'm sure I can expect great things ahead.

That's how it happens right?

Or maybe I should just pack more treats. Or remind myself that I am not, despite homelessness and near poverty, a bum.