Don't Stop This Train

What if I just didn’t get off the train at my stop? If I just kept going until the mood struck me to get up from the hard cracked leather seat, or the ticket clicker guy kicked me off, whichever came first. These thoughts raced through my head as I stared out the window at the same scene I’d seen a million times. Where would I end up?
Maybe it would be New York City where I’d tap my way into an audition for 42nd Street and get discovered as the biggest new Broadway sensation. Or maybe it would be the gated communities of Orange County, where I’d be the newest dysfunctional ‘real’ housewife. I was practically a desperate housewife already, minus the boob job and the whole husband part. It could be Texas, where I’d drive to an NRA support rally at the Outback Steakhouse in a rusty pickup truck with a confederate flag bumper sticker. It might take me down to Mexico where I could swap my suit for a bikini and join the wasted spring breakers in their endless pursuit to take enough shots of tequila to be featured on an MTV spring break special. Or it could be Alaska, where I’d go ice fishing with two old men whose old man nose hairs would freeze and form little nose hair icicles. We would sit around for hours not catching fish and hearing about how back in the day, they had to walk five miles to school, in the snow, up hill, both ways.
It would probably take me to the airport and I would jump on a plane to Italy, where a tall, dark, and even handsome Italian in a leather jacket with Patrick Dempsey hair would sweep me off my feet. We would spend our days eating spaghetti, and floating down canals in gondolas, and riding off into the sunset on a little red vespa. From there I could go to a farm Scotland, where I could search for Nessie and be woken up by bagpipes and roosters instead of an alarm clock. Then I could jet over to Japan, where I’d trade my briefcase for a Hello Kitty purse and dance back up with the Harajuku girls for an impromptu Gwen Stefani concert. As we were eating wasabi eel rolls after the show, a casting agent would discover me and I’d make a guest appearance on Iron Chef, chopping eggplants and racing the clock to get my gnocchi just right. After all that I could go to Hawaii and become a professional hula dancer, dancing at luaus around a pineapple stuffed pig for tourists in obnoxious floral shirts and fanny packs.
Suddenly, the train stops and I get off. But I’m not in Texas, or Scotland, or Japan; I’m in my office building, staring at my cubicle. There’s a pile of paperwork on my desk and a fresh coffee stain on my chair that I didn’t put there and I already see my greasy haired boss coming to tell me I’m two minutes late. Tomorrow, I’m not getting off that train.