Seek Assistance

Riding the escalator from the tube platform into Liverpool Street station this morning, I was all about being aware. The Asian guy with way too much product, hair spiked and jeujed into a sculpture (really faggy or just fashion victim?). David Schwimmer looks dopey as ever in the Some Girls poster. Canary Wharf is soulless. I ought to call my mom. There’s some stray pet hair on the jacket of the man in front of me. I miss my cats, but we get Gypsy in a couple weeks. I wonder which Sketch we’re being taken to tonight … the expensive one or the ridiculously expensive one. I guess I have to wear smart clothes, either way. Ugh.

I’m calm. I’m breathing. I’m zenfully watching my thoughts, being aware of my surroundings. I pull out my wallet to “touch out” my Oyster card, touch it against the yellow disk, and walk right into the gates which have stubbornly not opened.

*Beep*. “Seek Assistance” says the red light.

I look down at my hand, and realize I’m holding my work identification, not my wallet. In my heightened awareness, I’d reached into the wrong pocket, pulled out a thin plastic card, not my thick leather wallet, and continued on autopilot, going through the everyday exit ritual from the tube.

I guess I need to hone this “being aware” skill.