Black wool pea coats and puffer down jackets. Black berets and black gloves. Black dress shoes and ballet flats and knee high boots in black tights. Black trouser pants and skirts and suits. Black messenger bags and laptop cases and satchels. Black iPhones and Blackberrys.

Black. You’d almost think they’re all headed to a funeral. Maybe they are. They are, after all, on their way to work. An all black funeral procession dreading that 8 a.m. conference call. Dreading that “chummy” office banter- pedantic and forced and not all that funny really. Dreading the 3:30 vending machine run for overpriced but absolutely necessary Snickers because it satisfies. Dreading the pre-meeting to prepare for the meeting that will be followed by the post-meeting recap. Dreading brainstorming sessions with “the team” to throw even more words about synergies onto the heap already accumulated.

Black. They’ve accessorized their dread with sullen, sallow, vacant faces to match. So even should the sun brave the gloom, it’s always dark dark dark on this bus with those faces and their dread and all that black.

Briefly standing there, I scan the huddled masses- one onyx coat sleeve blending into the next- and TRIUMPH! find a coveted seat. It is then that I proceed to virtually slap my seatmates across the face. WAKE UP!

I’m on my way to a funeral too. But I’m the girl in the blood-orange toggle coat.

I immediately rule out one of those seemingly innocuous seats toward the front of the bus because I’m liable to lose it. My route is prone to a few elderly regulars and at least one expectant woman. Who, incidentally, I wasn’t aware was expecting in this weather with all the heavy coats and such- although that didn’t prevent her from shooting daggers at me for not hopping up with alacrity to give her my seat. Perhaps she’s practicing for the day The Baby turns 13 and decides she hates her mother? Or the day her husband realizes his growing resentment of marriage/house/baby around age 43?

Moving toward the center of the bus, game time decisions must be made. Where to go? Where to put my butt? Where? Where? WHERE DAMMIT?

Not there…that man is in fact taking up a seat and a half, despite his best efforts to the contrary. He can’t help it, but still. And not across the aisle either…there’s a double whammy of both a woman talking to her fellow co-worker or neighbor or what have you (which is peculiar on this route, as we’re a generally sullen bunch- all sallow and droopy eyed and silent as a library) and another woman chowing down on a freaking bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Breakfast of champions indeed.

So if not there, where? Certainly not next to the man aggressively reading his paper, scorning all would be seat mates from daring to deign on his elbow room. No need to expose myself to his moody shenanigans. But if I go too far into the bus without selecting a seat, I’m likely to find myself without any option whatsoever. And at that point, there’s no turning back. I’ll have just committed myself to standing and shuffling amongst all those who will exit the bus before me. The elbow jabs, the pole wrestling, the computer satchels and messenger bags unceremoniously poking and prodding without abatement. Asses and elbows, asses and elbows.

Despite all of my efforts, despite recognizing all the places I ought not to sit, wouldn’t you know I often find myself darting into a less-than-desirable seat? Bus seat stage fright. There I sit broken and defeated next to the stinky food eater, the cell phone talker, the personal space “creeper,” or the seatmate who wants to be my new friend and won’t take a hint. Foiled again.

What if instead of getting on the local commuter train, I walked up to the Amtrak ticket counter and boarded one of their trains instead? Amtrak isn’t exactly the most efficient (the arrivals can literally swing a day behind schedule) or the most romantic form of travel (have you ever spent any time on a train with “train people”? The smell, the shoelessness, the snoring, the Golden Grahams smooshed into your seat cushion…), but it can get the job done. In fact, my first excursions out of my hometown were by train, often to this very station. Something about that, about the act of escape, calls to me still.

What if instead of going to work, I bought a ticket to somewhere else? I could literally go anywhere. Anywhere else but here.

I could board a train and take it west to Montana, see the mountains again, the snows that never melt. I could go to the east coast, take the train to Maine; figure out what one does there anyway (eat lobster bisque?). I could head to Seattle, smell the rain and coffee beans and cranberry bogs. I could finally see New Orleans or Boston, San Fransisco or Vancouver. Or maybe just take a day trip to Minneapolis or St. Louis or “exotic” Cleveland. I guess the place isn’t what I’m after, but the going. A different city with different people and a different pace; something just left or right of center.

I could go without a hello or good bye, without a suitcase or camera, without a plan or reservation or companion. I could just go. I could, couldn’t I?

We first set eyes upon one another, so to speak, one lazy afternoon on the eastbound 152. There I sat in the back of the bus, squinting. Is that….? Would that be….? That’s something new, something I haven’t seen before, something I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW I was looking for….but I’m not sure…no, it has to be. It is.

At the time, I wanted to lunge forward and ask the well-put-together girl (who also looked about as blasé as you can be. Bless her heart, she had what you could call an “uppity” air about her.) for more details. But, me being me, I’d rather not know for certain and trust my super sleuth propensities than give her the satisfaction of a compliment.

So instead, I sat there probably looking like a psycho stalker (or like 1 in 9 CTA bus riders on that route), taking mental notes of everything: studying the size and shape, proportion, tag details, and embellishments. Once home, it took me all of about four minutes to track her down online. And I was right. It was Coach! And it turns out my love’s name is Madison Julianne. Oh, how I pine! The whole episode has me feeling like Veruca Salt: I want it NOOOOW!!!

So what makes Julianne so great you ask? Well….(please refer to Figure 1). Julianne offers hybrid functionality through the provision of both a 30″ detachable strap AND two side handles, allowing her to be worn across the body, over the shoulder, or carried (she’ll even fit a laptop!). Swoon. If all that wasn’t reason enough to lust after her, the zip top closure, additional back zip pocket, internal multi-function pockets and lavender lining, not to mention the “lightweight Italian leather with subtle texture and polished finish” in silver gray folds of serene beauty…shhhh, let’s just take a moment to appreciate…okay, fine…has sent me into fits of angst-ridden admiration and longing.

Figure 1

I say “longing” because, alas, Julianne is one of those high class types. The last time I invested in her neighborhood was before I moved downtown and life got a lot more expensive, and well before I decided to do something about my college debt (seriously kicking that one’s ass these days!).  So, while I envy and lust after and can hardly think straight, I have to wonder…am I really ready to throw fiscal caution to the wind? Can I really justify- better yet, can Coach?- the purchase of a handbag that purports a less “accessible” price point in spite of the realities of the recession? And if it’s not irresponsible, is it tacky, or worse yet- insensitive?

Admittedly, these days I happily carry one of my cheap Forever XXI bags that aren’t even real leather but are big enough for…wait for it…an extra pair of shoes, an umbrella, my lunch, some make up, band aids and meds, a book, my phone, my mom wallet (Hobo Lauren clutch, natch), my glasses, sunglasses, iPod, various pens and other sundries, and no less than two kinds of gum and four kinds of lip gloss. It’s a lot of junk.

But, when you commute a round trip total of 3.5 hours- meaning you’re gone for a solid 12 hours each day- you effectively turn into a nomad. And as such, you’re ready for anything: sunshine, rain, a new zit, blisters, dry skin, chapped lips, hunger pains, a dry cough, annoying fucks on public transportation who won’t shut the hell up, and even some after work extracurricular activities. You have to be prepared for anything. Who knows when, or if, you’ll see daylight or home again?

Julianne seems to understand this about me. She seems to be just the thing to tackle all of my needs. And…she’s pretty! When I visited her at the flagship store (we clicked right away), she was just the right size to accommodate my nomadic lifestyle whilst refraining from making me look like a Sherpa (observe Figure 2).

Figure 2 (in the more versatile gray)

I swear, as I stood there petting her and cooing, she whispered back, “I will make you happy…” and “Support the Economy…” but “Buy me online and ship to work in order to skirt the 10.25% Cook County sales tax.”

Julianne: sneaky, but oh so wise. And just my kinda gal.

After nearly four years, I may be used to the perks and perils of the reverse commute- always a prime seat on the train, though fewer train time options- but today’s trek to get to my train caused actual physical pain. You know those scenes in Titanic when Rose and Jack are clinging to door frames, trying to force their way past against the flooding tide of water? Well, now picture a 5′3 size 2 me doing the same (I’m serious) to get in the door of Union Station against the tide of people (who unlike the ocean, have been known to openly glare and yell at me to get out of their way).

I wish I could say I’m exaggerating, but my commute is an occupational hazard. Case in point, as I crossed the Adams Street bridge this morning, I took a sharp jab to the left bicep. The culprit? Some fat fucking whore’s cinder block of a fucking purse. It was so painful in fact that I winced and rubbed my now bruised arm for half an hour and the thing still hurts.

If that’s not bad enough, at the bottom of the Union Station stair well some bumbling fuck of a man rammed his way into me with such force (also the left arm) that my tightly lidded and freshly poured coffee spilled all over my hand and wrist. Again with the wincing and swearing, and nary an apology in sight.

The thing that really gets me about all of this is why are people in such a fucking hurry? They’ve already made their train and disembarked, they’re virtually “home free.” So what’s with the plowing into me part? What’s with the yelling at me to get out of their way? Don’t I still have a train to catch, a job to get to? While I may not really care for that job all that much, I’d still like to be on time in order to keep it. That said, I’m not willing to actually engage in hand-to-hand combat to get there.

Sometimes I really fucking hate people.

Once up and at it though, I’m usually pretty busy scaring myself in the mirror by my Little J-esque raccoon eyes- really need to work on taking the make-up off before bed (when you tell me your make-up is soft enough and good enough for my skin that I can sleep in it, you can bet that’s exactly what I’m going to do). Coffee or no; however, at precisely 7:02 I had better be out that door or I will miss my last ditch bus to catch my train to get to work on time (15 minutes late).

In my haste, I’ve been known to forget a few things. Things like deoderant (ew-seriously), brushing my teeth (I now keep tooth paste and an extra toothbrush in my desk), even my shoes to swap out once I’m done commuting (after wearing flip flops that day, I now have five pairs of shoes in a drawer at work). This morning, as I boarded my bus, selecting my seat, settling my bag and lunch amongst my lap, I happened to look down and see….my zipper gaping wide open. And just to help you out, the pants I chose to wear today happen to be of the tighter, form-fitting capri variety that for whatever reason lay perfectly flat while standing, but buckle around the hoo-ha region while sitting.Awesome.

Mortified, I debated whether I should immediately remedy the situation, fellow bus riders be damned, or wait for when the bus emptied and fix it then. I opted for the later, even though it made for an interesting bus ride and I worried I’d forget yet again. Rest assured, all is now well with my pants (except that I’m still wearing them and not naked in bed with my fucking sexy boyfriend instead- sigh).

After that, what more can I add other than that once I did arrive at the train station, an All-Important Businesswoman hurried past me and said, “You could move over to the side.” Huddled in a cluster of fellow train riders apologetically trying to board her train for the reverse commute, I thought to myself, What would she have us do? Stand with our backs to the wall? Instead, I replied, “And you could stop being a bitch.” Yes, really.

What will our discussion be today? What secrets will we whisper to the electronic page? What childhood story or literary anecdote or aloof observation of city life will we share? Will his email make me laugh, smile, snicker in my chair? Will he be flirtatious? Will I? Who is this man who has so captured my interest?

I hardly know him. But I know he is a dog-lover, an avid reader, a poetic writer, baseball fan, and divorced man in his mid-thirties. He still believes in love. Worries about social conformity and constraint in the same ways I do. And he claims to find himself smitten with me…but how can that be?

By chance, fate could have tossed us together countless times. We share the same grocery store, the same coffee shops, the same bus route to work. We could have bumped into one another at the farmer’s market, could have exchanged strangerly smiles in passing on the sidewalk, could have thumbed through the same stacks of the local bookstore. Maybe we have.

I wonder at times what his smile looks like, if his eyes would light up when he looks at me. I wonder what makes him laugh, makes him happy, makes him…insatiable. I wonder how he kisses, if he’d hold my head in his hands, softly but with determined intent. I wonder what his voice sounds like, wonder at the sound of his speaking my name. I wonder at the possibility…

I do not know quite how he found me, but suddenly there he was. There was his first email, his first quandary, first attempt to know me. And now that I know he is out there, I look for him everywhere. I peruse the nameless masses, wondering if I’ll look into a pair of eyes and just….know. It’s him.

We haven’t yet met by chance, but maybe one day soon we’ll meet on purpose.