Open Letter to the People on the Green Line

To my fellow B-Liners:

I'm sorry I smell like chicken. Or beef. Or whatever else I cooked at work before I got on the T.

Before I lived in Boston, I was aware of the fact that my chef coat carried the smells from the kitchen home. But I lived alone. And I used a car to get to my house so it didn't matter if I smelled like Torte Rose or sausage because no one would smell it but me. But here-here it's different. Here I use public transportation...

Waiting for the T to arrive, I silently pray that by some miracle it won't be crowded and that I'll get to sit down instead of having to smoosh up against pretty people dressed for a night on the town. Alas, I never get my wish. Not only am I dead tired and my feet hurt, but I feel bad for you, my fellow riders, because I am aware of the odor that is seeping out of my clothes and into the tiny, hot space that we are sharing.

So please, if you see a girl in checkered pants on your way home one night, please know that she's sorry for stinkin' up the place and that when she's not at work, she's one of the best smelling people in the city. :)

Sincerely,

A girl who's trying to pursue her dream, one dish at a time...