Of Two Minds on the B Train

I was standing on my morning train, reading a book. As the doors opened at a stop, a woman rolled a stroller onto the train.

Spilling out of the stroller was a young girl, probably four years old. She was big-boned and bubble-cheeked--barely contained within her red, chocolate-stained t-shirt. She just sat there listless in this little rickshaw with the curved, umbrella-like handles. As if to complete her application for diabetes, she was licking an ice cream cone.

I began my mental assessment of the situation, tsktsk-ing in my head about this child’s health outlook. Seeing her attack this cone, an errant arch of vanilla above her lip, I thought about childhood obesity. About how we’ve created a culture where children are morbidly obese before they are kindergartners, and how a full 25% of NYC public school children are overweight. I sighed at the fact that this girl was learning to be inactive before she learned how bad it could be for her.

Then I thought about how I didn’t have an ice cream cone, and how I wanted one. And my legs tired, I thought about how it would be really nice to have someone push me around in such a comfortable conveyance. And I thought about how I never know as much as I think I do about other people.

Yet another of my regular companions on my subway commute: ambivalence.