Op-Ed: I fell in love on the L, again

By Megan Rains

1:32 AM, January 7th, Red Line: drunkenly heading home too early from a late night in Old Town, or stumbling into a lifetime of love?

You stepped on my foot at Division & LaSalle. We caught each other's eyes as you lost your balance on my Steve Madden Embry black suede bootie. You fell, and so did I.

(But only you ripped your jeans and skinned your knee)

6:21 PM, January 19th, Green Line: leaving happy hour with my coworkers, or leaving my lonely single days forever?

Hello, above-6-foot male getting on at Armitage stop. Dark hair, darker black cotton Nordstrom v-neck. Making me wonder, as I start to tune out my The Daily episode about crude oil, how hard would you spank me? A leather Tumi work backpack that says, “my parents bought me this for Christmas” and an overworked hair gel look that says, “I still get haircuts at Great Clips”.

7:34 AM, January 30th, Brown Line: a commute to work, or a commute to destiny?

Another day, another train line, another man. I felt your gaze before I saw you. Swoopy, blonde hair like old Jason Dolley. Me: willing my Tide-To-Go pen deeper into the crusted coffee stain on my Banana Republic blouse. You: nodding along to something in your knock-off AirPods. Probably listening to John Mayer’s Slow Dancing In A Burning Room, thinking of your ex and wondering if love will ever find you in this busy city as ads for magnetic tooth brushes blur by. Just as I begin to start my plan to heal you emotionally and mold you into the husband I know you can be, you look at your Apple Watch. “Arriving at Morgan Station.” Then you’re gone.  I bet your lips taste like Big League Chew.

8:42 PM, February 12th, Brown Line: meeting my friends for $5 wine at Whole Foods, or meeting Prince Charming?

My three friends are the loudest people on the train. Babbling on about how Project Runway is shit without Tim Gunn (the correct POV, I might add). I try to subtly judge how much people are judging us when I see it. This train. It’s all women. Color coordinated outfits, legs only occupying their allocated seat space, a weak Dixie Chicks tune in the background… ALL women. The rarest moment. An all female experience in a bustling city. A supposed metropolis for this RBG-worshipping gal. But I couldn’t help but wonder: was this a sign? A sign to give up? This city is rejecting me. Rejecting my search for love. This sign was hard to ignore... No. Stop. STOP. Focus on Tim Gunn’s unmatched chemistry with Heidi Klum. This city can’t be done with me yet.

9:55 PM, February 23rd, Red Line: en route home from dinner in River North, or en route to a date with fate?

I find the only open seat without a mystery wet stain. Then I look around and notice a man in the seat next to me, you. Blue eyes, tanned skin, reputable Colorado ski resort quarter zip, reading Becoming. No, it couldn’t be. But yet it is. I look straight ahead, willing my heart to slow down. Willing my lavender Secret spray-on deodorant to do its goddamn job. A family-rich feminist: the jackpot. I do the unthinkable - speak.

Me: “Makes you want to take up piano, huh?”

You: “Huh?”

Me: “Michelle. The book, sorry.”

You: “Oh! Yeah. I used to play, actually. This book makes me want to start again. Hey - this is weird but I think I’ve seen you on this train before. This is crazy, but would you want to go on a date sometime?”

Me.

My moment.

This is why I’ve sunk $105 into my Ventra Card each month for the past 3 years. Why I commute in heels, not heinous black ASICS like the Chicago 30 year-olds who have given up on love. Why I fall in love on the train with each man, on each ride.

Because I believe.

I believe in the most expensive dating app in Chicago: The L.