Not So Super

Did I ever tell you the one about the time I fainted on the El?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

It was several years ago, and it was a rather warm morning. I was in a suit, which makes this story feel like ancient history as I so rarely don that type of attire anymore. I was on the Red Line, and it was underground at about North/Clyborn that I started feeling woozy. I was standing, and was hanging on to the pole, about 7 people away from the door.

I had noticed this handsome stranger standing next to me, as he resembled a cross between Dean Cain and Vince Vaughn. NOT a bad combination in my book. He was tall, smartly dressed and adorably dimpled. And, for the record, this was the old Dean Cain, like Clark Kent from Superman. Not bad.

As the wooziness wore on, I fanned myself with the free copy of the RedEye I'd already finished. I moved my hand down the pole to the cold spots. I unbuttoned my suit jacket, but didn't know what else to do. My head was spinning. My heart was pounding. I was beginning to break into a cold sweat.

And, no, this was not all induced by the guy. Give me more credit than that.

Anyway, I would have taken a seat, but they were all filled, and I am too damn polite (and embarrassed?!) to ask someone to stand so I can narrowly avoid passing out in their laps. So, I stood and suffered.

As we left the Clyborn station, and headed into the Chicago station, I was cognitively aware that this was the longest underground stretch with no hope for fresh air. Maybe this was all mental, but I just knew that I was going to faint. I didn't know what to do, but I sortof wanted to give someone around me a warning in the event that this did come to be. I looked at the closest person, the Clark Kent look-a-like and said in a tinny, small voice, "I think I'm going to faint."

He looked at me as if I was absolutely certifiably nuts. He said, in this egotistical, sarcastic, and ureasonably loud voice, "Are you serious?"

I leaned towards the doors as we entered and left the Chicago station, desperate for some wind. I didn't even have time to respond to his snarky reply.

If you've ever experienced a fainting spell, you know exactly what happened next. My ears started to ring, and the sounds of the El were drowned out by the incessant noise in my head. Then I started to get even warmer. Slowly, I felt the light-headedness take over, and then it was as if someone had drawn a heavy velvet curtain down, like at the Opera, and it was falling slowly in front of my eyes.

Fade to black.

I regained consciousness to find that I haven't fallen, only slumped, and had probably only been "out" for about 10 seconds. If that. The doors, thankfully, opened at the Grand station and I bolted off. Stumbled is more like it.

After crawling, almost literally, up the dank stairs to the street level, I slowly made my way to my office, where my girls quickly took over and pumped me with orange juice (hypoglycemia?) and cold towels, while forcing me to sit down with my head between my knees (harder than it sounds while balancing an orange juice).

I lived through it.

BUT, here is the clincher. The punch line. Aren't you glad you waited for it?

Feeling much more like my usual self, I went to happy hour the following day. As my coworkers and I enjoyed a cold beer after work, I looked around the bar, and saw a handsome stranger standing above his table of colleagues. I knew it instantly.

It was Clark Kent. I could hardly believe my eyes. I told my girls, and they of course insisted that I go over there, introduce myself and give him a hard time about his sorely underachieving gentlemanly behavior on the El the day before.

So, a few sips later, I did just that. I walked up to his table, swung my hair and gave him my most brilliant smile. I said, with not more than a TINGE of my southern accent (come on, we use it when we have to), "Hi, do you recognize me?" And he smiles, looked me up and down (what a guy) and says, "No. Should I?" And his friends giggled nervously, nodding in my direction like, "Come on buddy, girls never hit on us at happy hour!"

I looked him squarely in the face and said, "Yes, I was the one that fainted on you on the El yesterday?!?" And he blushed bright red. I wasn't sure the source of HIS embarrassment. Yet.

His friend chimes in before he could respond and said, "Oh, this is the cute girl that you walked all the way to work after she fainted!?" and looks at Clark.

I was shocked. Awed. Amazed. MORTIFIED for him.

Swiveling my head towards him, I look at him anxiously for his response. He flushed even deeper crimson, and mumbled, "Uh, rieurqalfdpsa." In other words, I have no idea.

Still in disbelief, I looked at him and said, "Oh. You've got to be kidding me. You told them you HELPED me?" I then turned to his friends, and said, in a nice but firm voice, "Yeah, this is the guy that looked at me like I was nuts when I admitted that I feared I was going to faint. And, he responded with a sarcastic, 'Are you serious?' and did nothing to assist me when I actually DID pass out. Not even CLOSE to walking me to my office."

His friends erupted into giggles, shouting all sorts of "Come on, dude, you should have helped her! Why did you lie?!?" at him, and I smiled sweetly and turned on my heels and went back to my table.

All of my friends assumed things went really well since they could see the laughing and the smiles, but little did they know that under that smart shirt and tie, Clark Kent wears a wimpy, worn out, white v-neck undershirt.

NOT a stretchy red super hero costume.

They did send over a round of drinks, however. Doubt Clark Kent ever had to do that to make up for his mistakes.