Painful Commuting

Riding on the subway is usually a positive experience. Solid reading time, no road hassles, chicks to check out, occasional odor of ozone and burnt meat in the station...nothing but gravy.

Today, however, I had a less than pleasant experience.

I'm standing there, minding my own business, nose in book (The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Trip...'cause drugs are fun...until your liver explodes and your brain turns to tapioca). Chick comes on board, looking like she needs to wash hair, but that's not the important bit. The important bit, the salient part of my little tale is her bag. Her over-stuffed with papers and books bag that she has slung over one shoulder. Her bag that she is whipping around as she turns in front of me. She's about 5'3", so shoulder bag is at just the right height to...

Ahhhh! My nuts.

Yep. Right in the groin. I make exhaling sound like a stricken water buffalo. I manage not to drop my book or fall to the floor writhing around like tuna on a dock, gasping for air (or, in my case, less ball pain). But, I do make my discomfort known.

Chick turns. "Oh, did that hurt?"

Tears in eyes. "Naw...I have two testicles, you only crushed one."

"Oh, good."

Sits down.

"Maybe you should keep better control over your bag...you'd inflict less groin trauma."

Slight smile...kind of sinister...is she a man-hating freak, out to eunuchater all of maledom? Does she keep score in some tiny red book, 1 point for impact, 5 points for man on knees, 10 points for collapse to floor, hand gripping destroyed genetic delivery system?

Maybe.

"Sorry...you're right...I just get carried away going to work."

I try not to parse this. In fact, at this point, I decide to quit while I'm ahead.

But, I did move my back-pack onto the floor, into a defensive position in front of me.

Just in case.