So easy an English major can do it!

I picked up a new hobby 2 weeks ago, and I’ve become addicted. It has become a part of my morning commute.

Is it something cool? Nope!

Is it cardiovascular? Absolutely not!

Are you the only person on the bus doing this? Sure am!

2 weeks ago, I got hooked on Sudoku puzzles. 

As a matter of fact, just last Friday night I completed 4 of them!

Yes, you read that correctly, I said Friday night.

I snuggled up on the couch, watched the 11 o’clock news, and solved a few Sudoku puzzles.

Later that night I applied Bengay to my entire body, gave my dentures a good scrubbing, and fell asleep to the Golden Girls.

Actually the Golden Girls part might be true. I do love Bea Arthur, and our voices are frighteningly similar. 

What's that you say? My life is pathetic? Yes, yes it is. 

Say that again? 22-year-olds should go out on Friday nights? Yes, yes they should.

Pardon? You agree that I sound like Bea Arthur? And I look like her too? Why thank you.

But enough about my feminine voice and exciting social life.

Two Mondays ago, I got on the bus and spotted an abandoned Boston Metro newspaper. I opened up to the crossword section, but the Sudoku puzzles caught my eye instead. Or perhaps I just have an aversion to crossword puzzles because I'm an uncultured swine.

Anyway, the directions read:

How to play Sudoku: Fill in the grid so that every row, every column and every 3x3 box contains the digits 1-9. There is no math involved. You solve the puzzle with reasoning and logic.

Is it me, or is that written in an incredibly condescending tone?

It might as well say, “So easy an English major can do it!”

I accepted the challenge and set out to complete my very first Sudoku puzzle.

45 minutes and two pencil erasers later, I got off of the bus with a blank Sudoku puzzle in hand and eraser particles all over my jeans.

It wasn’t until I sat down in my cube, however, that I noticed the eraser particles. Everyone  —  not just the group of construction workers — was staring at me on my walk to work.

I should've known something was up.

Long story short, it took me an entire week to successfully complete a puzzle. Apparently my logic and reasoning skills are comparable to my math skills.

I am the dumbest McKenna, after all.

Moving on.

As long as we're on the topic of the left side of the brain vs. the right side of the brain, I was always under the impression that those who lack math skills have very good people skills.

[Insert buzzer noise here]

Wrong.

I disprove that theory altogether. I'm about as socially awkward as they come. 

It doesn't help that I have overactive sweat glands. Too much information? Sorry. Just wanted to give you some insight as to why I'm so awkward. And that's just the beginning.

More to come on my social awkwardity. (I'm a "writer." I'm allowed to use poetic license.)

And more to come on my malfunctioning brain. Both sides.

Woe is me.

My Thighs Are Big, My Brain Is Small.

“Mom, is it true that I’m the dumbest of your four kids?”

“Oh honey that’s ridiculous!” she said, as she hid her face behind a Mary Higgins Clark novel.

I could’ve sworn I heard a snort.

Like so many situations in my childhood, I hated the response that I got from my Mom, so I set off to find my Dad. I was sure he’d feed me the answer I wanted to hear.

“Dad, is it true that I’m the dumbest of your four kids?”

“What a silly thing to say! Who said that?!” my Dad responded, his mouth curling at the corners.

2 problems here.

First of all, “What a silly thing to say!” and “Oh honey that’s ridiculous!” do not answer my question.

Secondly, the snort and smirk weren’t very reassuring.

So I confronted my entire family at once.

“Am I really the dumbest of the four kids?!”

I was bombarded with a series of irrelevant responses:

            “You’re great at sports!”

            “You have an athletic physique!”

            “You’re the toughest, by far!”

            “You’re certainly the best athlete!”

Oh how splendid.

What I lack in intelligence I more than make up for in testosterone.

I wore Dockers in the 5^th grade. I had an androgynous haircut until…well…I think that’s still up for debate. My first book was Play Ball, Kate.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.

My blood was boiling, so I yelled.

“WELL WHAT WAS YOUR GPA IN HIGH SCHOOL?!" (As if that’s any indication of intelligence.)

“DID YOU EVER HAVE A POEM PUBLISHED?!” (I authored “The Sounds of Life” in 6^th grade - what a deep concept - and they only published my poem in hopes that my parents would be foolish enough to buy the $100 anthology.)

“WERE YOU EDITOR OF THE SCHOOL NEWSPAPER?!” (I was just socially maladjusted enough to accept the position.)

“DID YOU MAKE DEAN’S LIST IN COLLEGE?!" (I’m almost positive the Emmanuel College mission statement is, “Providing a first class education to anyone with a pulse.”)

Everyone stared in horror.

My Dad chimed in, “Now, now, you’re very gifted! All of my kids have been blessed in different ways!”

He spoke slowly and deliberately, making sure that I understood every word.

Oh I understood.

I'm not very smart, but at least I can kick a soccer ball far!

My terrible, horrible, no good, very wet commute

My otherwise dull and muted wardrobe comes to life on rainy days. I slip on my hot pink rain boots, zip up my magenta raincoat and pop open my bright blue umbrella. And by “comes to life,” I mean makes me look manic.

In most situations, I would never think to mix my pinks and carry a blue umbrella, but I somehow justify it because it’s raining. As if a little rain excuses my wretched appearance. 

Rainy days make my already awful commute that much more awful. This morning was no different.

And so it started on my way to the bus stop. 

As I crossed Tremont St., I rolled my ankle and nearly face-planted in front of a line of impatient and judgmental commuters, sitting comfortably in their warm, dry cars. I winced in pain but carried on across the street as if my jerk was a perfectly natural movement.

As Ellen Degeneres put it, pain takes a backseat to embarrassment.

How, exactly, did I roll my ankle, you ask?

 

Well first of all, I have play dough for ligaments. My ligaments have as much elasticity as a fat man’s underwear band. So all it takes is for a small pebble to get underfoot and I’m down for the count.

Secondly, I evidently thought I was chic when I bought my rain boots, because I bought rain boots with a wedge. Yes, they’re hot pink. Yes, they have a wedge.

And yes, my ankles and my pride regret that decision every time it rains.

This morning, my fellow commuters and I were accompanied by not one, not two, but three baby strollers. (In retrospect, riding around in a 2-door, Plum-colored Dodge Shadow for most of my childhood wasn’t that bad. Or was it?)

As if sitting on an odiferous, dirty bus for an hour isn’t bad enough, I had to listen to three screaming babies. Their pre-teen mothers, who are seemingly incapable of parenting, ignored the crying and carried on with their phone conversations.

Courtesy counts, pre-teen mothers excluded.

Shortly after the baby brigade boarded, a man sporting a faded Canadian tuxedo plopped down in the seat next to me. He slurped his large Dunkin Donuts iced coffee in my ear and sighed every five minutes, blowing his dragon breath in my direction.

Not to mention our thighs were touching. But that’s entirely my problem.

When I finally escaped the babies and breath, I started what ended up being a 10-minute-long battle with my umbrella.

I bought the umbrella at Shaw’s for $10. First mistake.

My second mistake was buying an umbrella. Boston is the windiest city in the country, (Chicago should really consider changing its nickname) so when you open an umbrella, you’re asking for trouble.

I had no control over my umbrella. People gawked as I struggled to turn it right side in. Or were they gawking at my ensemble? Or maybe they were gawking at the make-up running down my face as a result of having no protection from the rain.

I look really great today.

More to come on my commute.