The Grumpy Vegan likes trains. And, whenever possible, opts to take the train rather than the plane. Recently, I had the opportunity to make two roundtrips to Boston from Baltimore. This was a departure from the road normally taken. I’ve never ventured as far north as Boston on the train. As a member of the AAA (I know, so AARP) and if I book far enough in advance, I can get a significant discount, which I offset by upgrading to business class. I like to work on trains. I can write, read and think, which is impossible on a plane and Amtrak’s pauper class.
Anyway, during my second Boston excursion and somewhere in Connecticut, I noticed two female power-yuppie-types sitting alongside me. No, not noticed; imposed upon more like. The never-ending banter. The constant talking over each. The liberal sprinkling of “like’s” and “you know’s.” The giggling and one could imagine, too, the touching. The yadda yadda interrupted by finger-poking Blackberrying.
Friend, the art of conversation is dead.
From time to time I was able to tune it all out and refocus on my own distractions. But then there was a loud, “No! You don’t say!” This, of course, means I have to put down my book and listen. It turns out that one had just told the other that they (presumably her husband but that wasn’t clear) were trying to have a baby. Now, babies and the Grumpy Vegan are like Bush and Mensa. So, I return my gaze to the countryside and my mind drifts back to my own thoughts. And, then, I hear, “Of course, now I stay lying down after we’ve had sex. Before I would always get up and go straight to the bathroom.” Immediately, I think, Who doesn’t? But then I think some more. Oh, she means so that the little spermatozoon can swim more easily upstream like trout, like, swimming upstream. Then, I think, they’re so small. What difference does it make whether she’s horizontal or vertical? Yes, gravity’s reach is endless. But spermatozoon? By now, I feel nausea. Straight sex usually makes me feel sick. But the vision of her lying there next door to her exhausted, given-it-all-he’s-got-presumably-husband while the little Woody Allens are doing their thing is, well, making me feel, like, really nauseous–really nauseous, like, as if I were pregnant, which makes me feel, like, even worse. So, I shake my head. Thank God I’m gay. And return to Pride and Prejudice.
