Rain, testosterone, and a really cold steel bench

My February 11 started out on my couch watching Sex and the Citywith Priya and ended with me stranded at the Mountain View train station for at least an hour. Long story short, everyone was busy with their busy lives and barely had time to drop me off to a Caltrain. The train that was supposed to come at 6:23 didn't show up, I was afraid that the subsequent ones were limited-stop, so I found a bench and sat myself down for what turned into the rainiest evening Mountain View had seen this year.

The first thing I noticed was that there were barely any women around, anywhere. I was surrounded by middle-aged men, some in their twenties, some nearing retirement. A few watched me for a few seconds before glancing at their watch in utter impatience. I don't mind waiting anymore, not after sitting at ____ for over three hours before being called in by tired asian ladies in white stained coats, but this changes when my nose is going numb and I can't unclench my fingers from my purse strap. I wondered why there were no women. I was on the San Francisco-bound side; maybe the men were returning home from work? You'd think if they lived in SF, they would work there as well. Maybe it was all the single men who didn't yet have a family or car or house, and were rushing back to their subsidized apartments carrying a stern expression and expensive-looking briefcases. Who can tell?

The second thing I noticed was that to make their impatience clear, these men would purposely step over the forbidden yellow line and stretch their heads to see the deep end of the train tracks, although they could perfectly see from the benches that there was no train in sight. Some decided to walk on the very tip of the curb that falls into the tracks and bitch into their cellphones. People are funny that way. 

After a while I got bored watching them do idiotic things, and leaned against a wire fence and waited.

Another train whizzed by. Limited stops, they told me. No way to find out if California avenue is one of them. As I stood there watching these tired angry impatient men hoard themselves into the closing doors, and was running out of ideas for thoughts to drive away the boredom, I started thinking about timing. Was it really everything, as they say? On countless occasions, good timing has accidentally saved me from an eternity of problems. Then again, some things were timed just right to create the biggest problem I've ever faced.

Shows have different things to say about timing. Sex and the City suggests that things are different the second time around. If that was a universal rule, life would be just dandy. Then again, different doesn't always mean better. And in any case, I always feel like I fall into the same rut no matter how I try to change my approach. Time, shmime. The only thing it has shown me is that people don't change.

What was the point of me standing under the increasingly pouring rain at 7 PM surrounded my a bunch of idiots with death wishes? Maybe if my ride left the house earlier, we wouldn't be in such a rush and I would be dropped off at home to my comforting couch. If I bothered to get off that couch and get a permit when I was 15, I wouldn't even be needing to catch the train. And if we had only waited, waited until after December and January when the whole mess would be over, maybe it would have worked out.

And with those thoughts, my 7:04 train made a full stop.