Leaving the Safety of the Suburbs for Packet Pick-Up

Hordes of tourists are swarming around D.C. like a pack of roving, (cherry blossom) hungry zombies, and the poor people of the Metro D.C. region must suffer for at least another week.  The Cherry Blossom Festival is in full swing.

I just returned from picking up my race packet for the Cherry Blossom 10 Miler tomorrow.  Am I ready?  Yes!  Was I annoyed by the crowds of people on the Metro?  Hell yes!

Per usual, the tourist crowds were hovering near doors, zooming onto trains before people (namely, me) could exit, and standing to the left.  To add insult to injury, the line to pick up the packets was huge.  Wrapping around the block huge, but I fortunately arrived there well before that happened.  Once inside the National Building Museum, some couple wandered up to the line and planted themselves in front of me:

WordNerd: Are you here for packet pick-up?

Couple: Yes!

WordNerd: Did you just get here?

Couple: Yes!

WordNerd, pointing behind her: The start of the line is outside.

Man: Oh.  *snotty voice* Thank you.

The couple reluctantly shuffled away, casting me dirty looks.  I shrugged, but I’m sure the people behind me appreciated it.  After all, if we have to wait 45 minutes to pick up our packets, they sure as hell do, too.  And contrary to my once extremely shy persona, a WordNerd who would’ve swallowed her words and stood behind the couple, only casting ferocious glances at the back of their heads, hoping said glances would singe their hair if not drill hotly into the backs of their skulls, I wasn’t going to stand for it.  There’s a huge-ass line behind me—what in the hell makes any sane person think they can just sneak into the line without someone saying anything?  This happened to me at Starbucks the other day—you know how the barista walks down the line, asking what drinks you like, but an order is maintained as you approach the cash register?  A pair of men behind me decided that they could cut in front of me because they had drips and I was ordering a latte.  As one of the men moved to pay, I cast him a look and said, “I believe I’m next.”  He got flustered and gestured to me to go first—um, thanks for observing the order, dude.  I guess I must look like a pushover?  People are always surprised when I speak up and say something, but I’m also inclined to believe that this happens a lot in general.  People are oblivious to everyone but themselves, and that can lead to an uncomfortable situation.  My advice?  Be alert and aware to the circumstances of any situation.  Not only do you benefit by watching out for yourself in your surroundings, but you also have the pleasant side effect of not being an asshole.  There, you’re welcome.

Anyway, I feel as if I’m set for tomorrow’s race.  Sure, it means that I’ll be up way too early for a Sunday and it means that I have to go into D.C. again (note to organizers: setting up a Friday pick-up would be so nice for us suburban dwellers), but it’ll be nice to get my mileage up there once more.  And then I will dodge the finishers and crowd, hop onto the Metro, come home, shower, and then go back to bed.