The Trot Must Be Stopped

As I get ready to leave Korea for 6 months on a honeymoon that is bound to change my life, I am gathering a growing number of things that I will definitely miss while I'm gone.

One thing I will not miss, however, at all, in any capacity, is the trotters. The trotters are the women in high heels who trot on the sidewalks to get in front of you in order to trot up the stairs before you do, so they can clunk down the escalator before you do, shimmy through the turnstyle before you do, and trot across the platform and push themselves into the last inches of space left on a full subway car, all before you do.
The constant little click-click-click-click-click-click-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK that follows me down the sidewalk has been eating away at my commuting soul and I can no longer handle it. Every time they slam their little spiky shoe onto the concrete chips away at some happy place within me, the happy buffer I have wrapped around my heart of Rage is diminishing.
And why don't you just leave your house like, oh, I don't know, 10 seconds earlier? Because it's not a constant trot that propels these women in front of me (which is actually not what bothers me. As many people who want to may walk in front of me, get on the train before me, whatev. I'm over that. I leave my house at the right time so that no matter what happens, I don't have to hurry. Or trot.) it's 7 trots and then regular walking for a few seconds and then like 4 more trots and then regular walking. And seriously, it's the stupid little noise that kills me.
Oh, and don't even get me started about the people who are transferring and run with abandon up the stairs onto the platform like hungry dogs just to stand in a line.
I mean, I get it that it's important to be on time for work. But geez! If you have to be to work at the same time everyday, get your shit together and stop showering before work, duh. Because that's how I make it to work on time. I don't ramble out of the bed with an hour to get ready, fry me up some eggs and pancakes, check my email, and leisurely shave my legs and then take my time pulling on my ridiculous stilettos only to trot it to work. Heck no. I am sleeping until the latest possible moment, giving myself a maximum of 7 minutes bathroom time which includes morning pee, washing face, brushing teeth, applying extra coats of deodorant, making sure I don't have boogers in my nose, and possibly doing something to my hair. Also, mourning the fact that yet again, I will walk out into the world with only one eyebrow because I didn't remember to pluck those suckers. Add about 2 minutes to sniff my clothes to figure out if I can wear them again before pulling them on and heading out the door.
That is how you avoid trotting. Or, you could just not wear high heels. If you wore awesome silent-soled shoes that didn't do the clicking noise and feel like the equivalent of a paper cut filled with lemon juice on my ear drum every time your child-size foot slammed into the ground with trot-force, you could run, sashay, tap dance your way to the subway and cram yourself onto that car every day if you wanted to and I wouldn't say a word. Okay, maybe like one or two words, but it would not warrant letting The Rage out to play in the sun. Negative.

Although I am still not totally on board for hiking through the Himalayas for two weeks (this is the husband's dream and I'm just following him and praying that perhaps I can take some strong drugs to make the time and pain pass more quickly), I am ready to be there. Because there are no high heels in the Himalayas. And I'm definitely ready to be in India for a few months. And there may be high heels there, somewhere, but not where I'm going. And being in the States, where there are plenty of high heels, many of them on my friends and family, will not bother me because we do not find ourselves trotting to the subway on sidewalks in the South. Praise God.

End Rage.