Victory?

           Yesterday was the Victory Parade for the Patriots' Super Bowl win. I am only vaguely aware of these sorts of things now because the husband watches some Sportsball and because I have to commute to my office job amidst all this nonsense. I find football generally pretty snoozy, but Sunday's first half was exceptionally boring, so when our daughter needed to go to bed, I used her as an excuse to leave our friend's Super Bowl party. After getting her to bed, I proceeded to then watch a replay of the Mark Twain prize ceremony honoring Bill Murray. During that, I heard some fireworks so I figured the Pats must have won.

            With regard to the parade, one would think; "Ok, we have won a dozen of these in the last twenty years so it won't be any more packed than say, two years ago, right?". One would be wrong. Oh so wrong. You see, yesterday was an exceptional championship parade because it was an unseasonable 60 degree day in February. Word of the practically tropical weather summoned everyone in Massachusetts this side of Route 495. I had a concert gig yesterday evening, so please imagine me on my way to work in a dress coat, carrying a gown in a bag on the Orange line while rabid middle schoolers in Brady jerseys yelped colorful suggestions about what the Rams could do that day. (P.S. The Rams were in L.A. and then they were in St. Louis and now they're in L.A. again? This is something I learned yesterday and people wonder why I question the arbitrary nature of team loyalty...) But that's right, it wasn't enough that I, as a regular commuter wearing my faux fur trim black coat, was in the minority in this sea of blue and red sportsing attire, but also that day, I had to be that a$%hole, trying to keep my floor-length gown from wrinkling on the train.

           I haven't felt so markedly urbane since my friend Rita and I had to call AAA in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina when my car broke down on our vacation. This was around, I'm guessing 2005? We were in said parking lot to rent a movie, so that should give an idea of timeline here. Whatever year it was, she and I were both rocking jersey resort style skirts and metallic purses, because that was obviously a thing that season, when a somewhat surly-looking Outer Banks native with long hair and some missing teeth came to get us in his tow truck. My car was as dead as a doornail and did have to be towed. We had the usual talk about AAA policy and how we were going to have to ride to the mechanic's and also get home that day, and he nicely said he could take us back to my parents' place, (no Uber then, not a bustling cab business on the Outer Banks and a car rental at the beach wasn't really necessary for the two days). This of course meant that we had to ride in the tow truck. Our first hiccup was that neither Rita nor I could manage to open said passenger door and he had to assist us. Then we had to be helped into the cab because it was quite a high climb, especially in our somewhat precious outfits.

           Upon seeing the inside of this tow truck cab, the inevitable happened. I knew this would happen because Rita and I have been friends since elementary school. She, being a fastidious person, grabbed her antibacterial hand gel from her silver purse and squirted a generous portion into each of our hands. Did she care that this might insult our driver? Possibly. But though Rita is a generous and polite person, I also know her well enough to know that the appearance of the inside of this cab would outweigh any possible insult or further embarrassment. There was no question spoken aloud of whether I wanted the hand gel either. And having grown up with my mother, I know that it is often best to accept the inevitability of these types of compulsions, so I silently and compliantly held out my hands. When we then couldn't open the door to exit the truck, our driver shook his head, and I swear this is a direct quote, said: "Y'all are gonna get captured."

           Back to yesterday. I could hear from thirty floors up exactly when the parade of duck boats began because that's how many people were adorning the streets of our fair city. Later that afternoon, I just wanted a chai. I had avoided the streets for the first half of the day, but damnit, these fans were not going to ruin a walk for me on a rare warm winter's day. I realize the chai latte part is super bougie, but bear with me. I'm a busy mom with a full time job and side hustle. I'm tired basically all the time and occasionally just want a $4 beverage in the guise of self-care. The streets looked and smelled like hot garbage in a way that I have not even experienced after Marathon Monday. And of course, a giant gaggle of Pats jerseys just beat me in line at the local coffee shop, where they loudly deliberated their purchases and unwittingly continued to block me from the straw wrappers. I succeeded in being tolerant of the suburbanites, who were seemingly incapable of lowering their voices for other patrons, but I also just wanted my chai.

           I finished the work day and schlepped my gown around some more to the concert location. I sang a concert of art song with good friends. It went well and we had an appreciative audience.

           After the concert and heading to take the T home, I was looking forward to the relative quiet that the 9:30pm trip home would offer me compared with the chaos of the morning. That's when we got to North Station and a raucous crowd of drunkenly victorious Bruins fans joined our car. As they whooped and hollered, I clutched my gown, grateful in the knowledge that the following day, I would just be another commuter again.