On mornings when I don’t leave for the gym at 6 a.m., I am tormented by the internal debate of whether I should stay on the downtown no. 1 local train or switch to an express no. 2 or 3 at 96th Street. Under normal circumstances, this should be a no-brainer if one wants to quicken his or her commute. However, in the midst of rush hour, you are more likely to stand on a no. 2 or 3 train crammed between someone’s ear and someone else’s armpit and watch a nearly empty no. 1 train pace you all the way to 42nd Street.
Today I made the switch to my own detriment. Below please note the armpit of the woman in the black coat, the man in the blue jacket about to be smashed by the closing doors, the grimace of the girl in the red (who would also watch mournfully as multiple no. 1 local trains passed our no. 2 express), and what appears to be a hand holding a baby in a tank top ... What the ...? It's 30 degrees outside! I didn't notice that while on the train so let's give the weary commuters of Gotham benefit of the doubt and assume it's a very life-like doll. Please further note the man seated comfortably on the empty no. 1 train across the platform.