This is Tasker Morris station

I used to drive a car everyday. Now, I ride the subway everyday. I used to get really angry in traffic. Now, I kind of enjoy my commute. I used to listen to the radio. Now, I listen to headphones. I used to pay a lot of money to get to work everyday. Now, I pay very little to get to work. I used to smell my innocuous car air freshener. Now, I smell the subway pee. 4 out of 5 ain’t bad.

My subway rides are generally pretty precious time for me. I either get to be in my head and be quiet. OR, I get to meet some great people. Regardless of what I do, I’m usually pretty happy about it and pretty thrilled to be living somewhere I can take public transit. One exception to the happy transit rule is game day. I live 2 stops from the stadium complex. So, when the Phillies or the Flyers or the 76ers or (god-forbid) the Eagles are playing, my subway gets taken over. Sure it’s kind of fun to get into the spirit, but generally speaking I just want to go home. The subway gets super crowded with people who don’t know where they’re going and/or where to sit and/or stand and/or how to read the signs and/or are a little drunk. This is the worst during Phillies season because they’re usually sweaty too.

Earlier this week, I had a typical Phillies commute. Dozens of New Jersyans and suburbanites nervously waiting to be mugged in City Hall station clad in red caps, clutching baseball gloves, or expensive purses. Being an unseasonably warm day, they were sweaty too. “Great.” I think as I mentally roll my eyes.

The train pulls up to the platform and we file in. My normally moderately full train is suddenly a game of musical chairs. I hate musical chairs. I always end up either with my ass on the floor or hurting someone. Not in the mood to play, I bump through the crowd looking for a safe place to weather the storm. “Sorry.” “Excuse me.” “Oops. Behind you.” “Thanks.” (I’m 99% sure these words actually come out instead of the “Get the f*ck out my way!” that is clawing its way around my head.) I finally make my way through the crowd of red and white shirts and French pedicures in flip-flops and take up a kind of obnoxious space near an exit door. While I don't normally like to block half the exit, I figure that it’s safer for everyone if I'm out of the way.

5 stops and I’m home free…my blood pressure drops slightly.

4 stops and I’m home free…my breathing is returning to normal.

3 stops and I’m home free…oh, look a cute baby smiling at me, maybe this isn’t so bad.

2 stops and I’m…oh dear god…no. You won’t fit. Please don’t try to squeeze in here. Look, dude, I’m almost in my happy place could you maybe not try to cram in here…ugh.

Yes, he’s tall, dark and handsome, but he’s sweating like a pig and his right shoulder is maybe 6 inches from my face. I’m trying to breathe through my mouth, so as to avoid smelling anything, but I can't keep this up for long. As the train lurches forward, he reaches above my head to brace himself and I am practically nuzzling his armpit. Nowhere to run! I’m wedged between Jersey girl, exit door and a sweaty armpit.

SHIT! Stop breathing! I’m running out of air. I’m running out of time! Turning blue! I have no choice…oh god, here we go…deep breath…

Waiting to be blown over and gag and maybe vomit a little, I realize that it’s actually not that bad. In fact, it’s kind of cozy in here. He smells oddly familiar. Seriously? Is it possible that this man’s sweaty pit stains actually smell like cinnamon tea? Now, I’m faced with an even more troubling problem than a crowded train on game day. Now, I’m the freaky girl listening to headphones who is apparently sniffing some stranger with a dopey far off expression on her face.

Over the loudspeaker "This is Tasker Morris station..." The train grinds to a halt and Mr. Cinnamon tea gracefully backs out of the car. I’m dumbfounded, creeped out, intoxicated, and a little embarrassed all at the same time. As the doors close behind him, I almost could have sworn he winked at me on the way out.

I have absolutely no idea what just happened, but I know one thing for damn sure; this never would have happened in my car.