There is always those few people, mostly in their early forties, that insist on running from the turnstile down the escalator to get to the train. One of two things happens: they miss the train they were so desperate to reach or they end up waiting for the train that has yet to arrive at the station.

It doesn’t matter if I show up at 9 am on a Tuesday or 3pm on a Saturday the runners are always there. It’s like they’re  an essential part of the entire metro system process. They mingle breathlessly with the consistently late trains and the mumbled speaker annoucements. 

Today I am headed into the city for an interview. As always I am filled with anxiety. As the months have worn on in my job search this anxiety has reached peak levels. I over plan my time table making sure I am early to every place I am supposed to be. Once I make the train (half an hour before needed) I spend my time losing myself in the people around me.

The young boy fascinated by how dark the underground stations are. The older woman reading and highlighting in stark red pen. They middle-aged gentleman lost in his paper. Even the woman who had earlier rushed to wait for this train, getting on seconds before me, is now engrossed in some sort of manual. Each person is on their way somewhere with some purpose in mind.

I speculate on whether or not their stomachs are rolling like mine. If they are nervous about what happens at their destination. Can they see the beads of sweat forming on my forehead that I am now panicking about? Is one of them the person that will interview me? Will this interview go well? Wait, what stop am I at? Have I missed my transfer?

Dear God, what will I do when I inevitably arrive a hour early? At least I don’t feel rushed. If only my anxiety would go the way of the wind, rushing off to find someone else to overtake.

Half a block walking distance away I find a Starbucks. Guess where I’m spending the next 45 minutes worrying about what comes next.

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