I pause ever-so-briefly while climbing the steps to board this morning’s Boston-bound express train. From within the double-decker car, a distinct buzz emanates: Scores of unrestrained vocal cords, vibrating disharmoniously in affected, outraged nonchalance. Dear lord. Teenagers.
Upon stepping into the car, I am welcomed by a cluster of shiny-haired, jean-clad high school girls (sophomores, I’d bet), one of whom looks directly at me while half-screaming “Doesn’t anyone get off this train?”
I push my way through the crowd of 12 or so girls, who buzz about how their male counterparts have migrated to other cars in order to find seats, and how they want seats, and how they don’t want to stand for the 35 minute ride into Boston. Welcome to the real world, ladies, where none of those dozing old fat dorks in suits are even considering chivalrously ceding their comfort for yours.
They do not think to sit on the stairs that they’re flanking, so I sit on a newspaper on the top stair. I can block them out of my vision with a New York Times, but I am two feet away from the epicenter of the conversation, which borders on mind-numbing tedium until it turns to the Natick Collection and Chanel purses.
“Nobody at Framingham High has a Chanel purse,” one girl is saying. “I mean, that’s, like, what? A couple thousand dollars? I mean, that’s ridiculous.”
The girls fall silent until someone says “Well, maybe people have Chanel purses, but they’re not taking them to school.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” the first girl says. “I mean, I would never bring my Chanel purse to Framingham High. It would be gone in two minutes.”
Everyone rushes to agree that they would never bring their Chanel purses to school.
