I love my subway ride. Love it. I like to say it’s the only alone time I get all day. (Other than locking myself in the bathroom occasionally to hide from my children.) I look forward to it so much, my purse is practically dedicated to my subway activities.
I almost always have my Kindle. A 25-minute ride is enough time to read a few chapters (just finished Allegiant by Veronica Roth), and who gets to read these days? Pure luxury. I also carry a print book on occasion. It has to be really special, since it takes up so much room — and I need to secure a seat for reading with two hands — but if my Kindle is a cozy sweater, a real book is cashmere.
Like every other human in New York City, I also carry my smartphone. This is for when I’m feeling practical or anxious. I’ll add items to my to-do list, review my calendar for the day, answer email or read from the New York Times app. Or if I’m feeling overworked or overwhelmed, I’ll play a good three or four Candy Crush levels, blocking out my stress. I couldn’t leave my house without my phone.
I frequently also have a magazine curled up into a tube lodged in my purse – my standard back-up, for when I’m in the mood to read but don’t want to get submerged too deep.
When I’m on the subway, no one can reach me. (Dear God: Please don’t let WiFi on the trains?) It’s my chance to do something that makes me happy: get sucked in, block out the world, catch myself up, organize my day, clear my mind; crush some candy. It’s up to me, and nobody else has to know.
Just those 67 other people crushed up around me.