I can never go undercover

This morning New York City proved something to me that I pretty much already knew:

I can never go undercover.

I’ll never be in the CIA. I’ll never get to dress like Sydney Bristow and kick serious bad-guy spy ass. This is because I know everyone in the world. Really.

This morning I was on the 6, heading to work, and not really paying attention to much beyond Eddie Izzard rambling about castles in my ear. Then I looked up and standing 10 feet from me was one of my friends from college. I kind of stared at him until he looked up. He only looked shocked for a second then gave me a “hey” heads up nod. He got off the train at the next stop, but he waved when he walked past my door.

My story doesn’t end there though. It never does. He texted me to see what I was doing on “his” train. I asked him the same, because I am a smartass, and told him I was going to work. Then he asked me where I live. Turns out, it’s a block from him.

Really New York City? Really?

I can NEVER be a spy now. If I were, it would always be like that scene in Ocean’s Eleven. You know the one I’m talking about.

Saul! Saul Bloom, is that you? Saul! Saul, it’s me! Bucky Buchanan! Remember? From Saratoga? (where coincidentally I spent most summers of my childhood).

That’s how it would be for me. Perpetually. I’d be in Russia, trying to steal the nuclear poison bomb back from some mobster, dressed all slutty but with a knife strapped to my thigh and then I’d hear:

Lauren? Lauren?! Is that you? Lauren, It’s me! Johnny Ruins Your Mission! Remember? From Penn State/North Allegheny!

I mention my high school too because this same train run-in happened in the fall with someone I’ve not only known since high school but since preschool.

I guess I’m destined to a normal life, free of fighting bad guys in cool outfits. Aww nuts.


10 thoughts on “I can never go undercover

  1. Oh, I know just what you mean.

    Everywhere I go people are always hitting the floor and saying “God Save The Queen” and stuff and it’s just so annoying.

    How am I to be expected to shop for tampons at Target with crap like that going on?


  2. I’m with you and Kristen. Every time I get on the train I get nothing but, “Oh my god – you’re that blogger who writes about stuff that doesn’t really matter!” Then the hot women through their bras at me.

    It’s ridiculous.

  3. Kristen: Next time, tell them to stop groveling, hand THEM your tampons, point them to the register and tell them to serve their queen. Ungrateful peasants.

    Apollo: Funny story, I rode the train with a bunch of really giddy girls who weren’t wearing bras. Now I know why. I hope.

    Matt: If I lived on the left coast with you, I would totally find girls to throw underwear at you.

  4. Move somewhere that nobody has heard of – such as Mooresville, North Carolina – and you won’t have that problem. Ha.

    If I were 20 miles to the south, actually in Charlotte, I likely would. I already know two people from PSU that have moved there.

  5. Apollo: I’m very sure you tried. “A” for effort.

    Matt: Hang in there buddy. Keep up with the hilarity and panty-tossing will ensue.

    Mind: There’s a lot to be said for anonymity. There’s also a lot to be said for the massive Nittany Network…give it time.

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