So I'm getting onto an extremely crowded 6 train this morning at 59th St./Lexington, moving smoothly across the train through the narrow corridor left in the wake of the commuters just debarked, when suddenly I trip and am falling, falling toward two stout women and a baby. I catch myself inches from disaster—and believe me, this is a pratfall worthy of Dick Van Dyke in the making—by grabbing the pole directly between the two women, and I mutter a faint "Sorry," abashed.
Then I look down to see what I tripped over. Their shoulder bags, arrayed all around them on the floor.
Now I don't feel so stupid about tripping. What I feel stupid about is apologizing.
