Don't you hate it when you're right in the middle of belting out a glorious Broadway tune - a real showstopper, you’re in perfect voice, you’re in a really great space, the acoustics are fantastic, and suddenly the doors open and someone gets on the elevator with you? It’s fuckin’ annoying. And it’s always a little awkward, right? 'Cause the person undoubtedly missed the beginning of the song and then you have to start all over again. Just for that one person. I hate when people are late to the theatre. It’s so rude.
You know what else is so rude? Someone fainting on the N Train and holding up morning rush hour when I have a job to get to and a life to live. I mean, Get the hell off the floor, Lady! Funny I should mention it, because that’s exactly what happened this morning, making me a half hour late for work. Meanwhile, that drama queen was whisked away in a luxurious, chauffeured ambulance, while I was left to deal with the repercussions. The worst part is that it’s the third fainter to delay my morning commute since I took this job, and the twenty-seventh time I’ve had to deliver that explanation, or one similar, to my boss. Someone fainted, or a homeless man threw himself onto the train tracks, or there was an explosion on Lexington Avenue, or I was raped. Daily occurrences for one living and working in New York City. Of course, my boss lives here too, so she must realize that all of these circumstances are not only possible, but indeed happen all the time. And she always swallows my excuse, but never without a spoonful of doubt and hesitation mixed with (by the sour expression on her face) doody to help it go down. Though I can’t say I blame her. These alibis do sound fabricated, especially in their encore presentations. They even taste like lies in my mouth, but what am I to do? My day-to-day schedule and punctuality rely in large part on an extremely imperfect system of transportation, and a mere prayer that those 8,000 (or so) strangers I am forced to travel with will not decide to faint, drop dead, or go into labor at a time that is inconvenient for me.
From now on, instead of trying to sell these bogus and factual realities to explain my tardiness, I’ve decided to start making up lies that sound more like the truths I feel would better assuage my supervisor's skepticism. Like, “Sorry I'm late! Beyonce was on Regis & Kelly! Couldn’t miss it!” Or “I know it’s 2:00 in the afternoon, but I stopped in for Breakfast at this little bistro around the corner and decided I'd really prefer to wait for their Brunch menu.” It’ll make me seem like a real bitch, but at least I won’t sound phony. And I think everyone agrees that Bitchy is much more attractive than Phony.