Just minding my own business. A living, breathing form in complete harmony with the concrete and steel city. My gentle hand rests upon the hard black rubber, exploring the crevices and seams of this useful, and seemingly unappreciated, apparatus. My thoughts drift to those I have loved and those I have yet to love...
I hate it when people pass me on the escalator. I fucking hate it. They make me feel lazy. I mean, how can a thinking and self respecting young man sit idly by as Johnny Prada suit skips gingerly up the parallel-grooved steps that I still have an irrational fear of catching my shoelace thanks mom in? What am I supposed to do!
He is obviously in good shape. I like to think I am to. But here's the rub: he has taken the initiative to not utilize the wonderful technology of user-propelling steps. No, he is so important that he has to use the steps not as a way of relaxing, as originally intended, but as veritable rocket boosters to his already gingerly gait... and I hate him for it.
When Mickey McAsshole passes me, I generally cast a very judging gaze in his direction. A "Am I not good enough for you?" stare. A "I swear I'm not lazy! I'm just enjoying the scenery! Don't judge." look.
Ok. I'll admit it. I rarely stand on the right. I love passing on the left. It's my job. It's an ego boost. It makes me feel really good. Besides the cardiovascular benefits, I get to pass good looking girls and leave a lasting impression. "Hey hey hey now! Who is this bundled package of Bearded Manhood? Come let mama unwrap her present..." or something like that.
That's why getting passed hurts so much. Whenever it happens, I slowly (dramatically) lower my head and admit defeat. I chose sloth. I chose stagnation. I chose temptation. I chose defeat. Gather your strength, Matt, and follow Jimmy Von Dickwad up the steps. Save some part of your minimal dignity. Your heart will thank you.