I know, I know—there is some sort of mythical warm glow that is supposed to fill my body when I surrender my hard-fought seat on transit to a pregnant women, that mother with kids, some older gentleman, or whomever looks decrepit enough to guilt me to move, but I just don’t feel it. Or perhaps this minuscule warm glow is being numbed by my discomfort and inability to read while standing and holding the overhead bar. And how I am supposed to appear on Craigslist’s missed connections or subwaycrush.com if I can’t sit their brooding while reading poetry on the downtown Q? This is all I have going for me, so I’m keeping my seat.
Society may look at me as a self-absorbed asshole, but if it is far better to give than to receive, then letting others give is superior yet. I don’t want to be that schmuck that takes away the opportunity from some other upstanding rider to rise and relinquish his seat, so I’ll suffer and remain, firm in my knowledge that I have bequeathed the greater gift by allowing others to give. If only everyone were as saintly as I.