I saw this little girl with a tiara on the subway the other day and thought several things: 1. Where are your parents? 2. Oh, there is your inattentive dad checking the stock market in the WSJ. 3. Stop staring at the creepy man. 4. Dad, please make her stop staring at the creepy man. 5. It’s pretty creepy of me to be taking a picture of a child on the train. 6. The subway is no place for a child, or a princess.

Then I thought about how much I complain about the subway. I complain about lots of things about NYC, but I think the subway may be my main source of frustration and anxiety. Every other day I have the “the worst train ride ever” and, in reality, not getting off the train to talk about it would really be the worst train ride. But I tend to whine, bitch and over dramatize the majority of my subway experiences and I sound a bit like, well, a princess. As if this steel bullet that carries me efficiently (mostly) to and from work is so awful compared to the silver chariot I am normally accustomed to. I mean there’s no arguing that the subway is filthy and the rides aren’t particularly enjoyable, but I mean it could be worse.

Whenever I respond to someone when they ask me about how it’s going in the city I always find myself some how on a rant about the woe that is me because I have to ride the subway. Yeah me, and everyone else in this city. The intensity in which I describe my distaste for the subway is usually a borderline spoiled princess tantrum. It isn’t hard to go off on the human Tetris that is played every morning and the sickening feeling of a strangers yawn on your face, and…wait, am I being dramatic again? Was I, like this little girl, raised with a shiny tiara on my head?

My Colorado license plate did read 312HMD, which my mom cleverly decoded to stand for High Maintenance Daughter and I was, although very unfairly and with no real basis, called an Ice Princess repeatedly in high school. And now that I have been removed from my comfort zone and thrown into the streets of NYC, I am kind of a high maintenance pansy.

In Boulder, our public transportation consisted of a series of clean buses cutely named after verbs that could get you around the city, all running on environmental friendly french fry oil. You could “Skip” up to Pearl Street or “Jump” across town. I was never really sold on the “Bound” bus though, maybe it’s like, “I’m taking the bus, I’m bound to end up somewhere.” The public transportation there was just not quite so public.

Boulder set the standard high on, well, everything. It had everything I needed rolled up in a warm, fuzzy blanket made out of completely recyclable materials. Relentless crowds and claustrophobia don’t exist in the Boulder bubble. So maybe I was raised with a high standard for living but I’m in NYC now and the city doesn’t take excuses or apologize. I need to get off my high white horse, suck it up and enjoy the ride.