Think I miss my rail commute? Think again

Three years have passed since my daily slog of a commute on the Long Island Railroad ended: more than a thousand days since sipping canned wine through a tiny straw, the crinkling brown bag in my left hand and iPhone in my right, crammed between several hundred strangers on torn vinyl seats.

I braved the rails for the last time on March 10, 2020. COVID-19 had already snuck into New York, so on the subway I wore gloves and a scarf over my nose, careful not to touch anything.  

People who commute to Manhattan from the suburbs are a special breed. It takes resolve and a willingness to sacrifice time, personal space and control. Telecommuting on Fridays was a coup before the pandemic. 

Commuting often felt like a surreal social experiment. Sweating and swearing in a jam-packed sweltering Penn Station, I’d think about my life choices. Staring at the dirty, low ceilings, I’d sometimes hear an announcement blare, “Attention passengers, all service from Penn Station is now suspended due to switch problems.” A wave of collective panic would roll through the crowd as everyone calculated whether to take a subway to Queens to get a ride home from a begrudging spouse or to wait it out with a Cinnabon.

I had lamented every delay, fare increase and uncomfortable ride. It took me hours to unwind from the crowds and the noise. I often grabbed dinner at Penn to eat on the train, and my daughter was usually asleep by the time I got home. I became hardened but resilient. 

Making friends on the 7:42 a.m. from Cold Spring Harbor was a bright spot. The ride went faster, and I got to know people from my town I might never have met otherwise. 

Everyone knew one another’s business: which company was about to reorganize, whose kid was having a tough time at school and where folks were spending vacations. We exchanged recommendations for books, Netflix and hair products in the middle of the six-seater. 

I got career advice and learned the benefits of universal life insurance. And someone always complimented my new sneakers, making me feel hip among the suburban elite.

Lockdown happened so quickly. I relished every telecommuting day. A new morning yoga routine was a healthy contrast to my typical weekday, shoulders tightening as I zipped around the station parking lot looking for a spot. Did I have enough time to get coffee, or would I have to run for it?

Ending my commute meant an annual windfall of $6,000 in saved expenses, now paying for one heck of a vacation. And I’m saving a small fortune on outerwear and retractable umbrellas since I drive everywhere and hardly leave the house during a snowstorm.

I’m self-employed now and grateful that those days are behind me. On weekdays, I sleep until 7 a.m. and drink my coffee in bed in a proper ceramic mug instead of Styrofoam that would collapse in my hand, spurting the hot liquid out the lid any time the train abruptly stopped. I get my daughter on and off the school bus every day and eat meals at the dining room table like a human being. And some evenings, sitting in an Adirondack chair in my backyard, I can hear the train whistle and engines in the distance. Then I take a sip from a can of wine for old time’s sake.

Reader Maura Charles lives in Huntington.