Today was another thrilling ride on ye old "7" line.
Due to damage to the track, we are going to totally shaft your morning.
Okay, so this wasn't the announcement, but it certainly should have been. Instead, the entirely competent and kindly conductor did manage to bellow several times over, "Beware of pick-pockets at all times; they are all around you!"
First, is this Dickensian England? No, it's Queens, and I guarantee that Oliver Twist and the Artful Dodger are nowhere to be found. Perverts, on the other hand, abound! Twist and Dodge - that's what one has to do in this scenario, because this city is loaded with guys that live for overly crowded subway cars so that they may rub against unsuspecting women for kicks. Take my wallet, just leave my ass alone.
Second, "they are all around you"? I love how the MTA can seriously inconvenience thousands of straphangers, while simultaneously inducing mass paranoia. Pick-pockets are lurking behind every corner; suspicious packages, presumably teeming with explosives, are waiting to detonate all over the city; and backpacks and other large containers are subject to random search, as they undoubtedly contain anthrax, Ebola or ricin (hey, Lord only knows what women carry in those multiple bags of theirs). It's a wonder I leave my apartment.
Actually, I bitch, but the whole fiasco ended on an amusing note: After about 10 minutes of being in a near-embrace with a man to whom I am not married, I peel myself away at my stop and he says, "Your hair smells really good." He wasn't pervy, weird or creepy. His bag appeared to be of normal size. He tried to keep a respectable distance (a monumental feat, considering). All-in-all, he was just a nice guy striving to make the best of an awkward situation...and my hair does smell good.