These Friday afternoons in Grand Central Station, standing in line for Metro North, waiting behind rows of tartan shorts for my overpriced ticket on a crowded and sweaty train.

I judge them, those in front of me, standing in their sandals like caricatures of themselves, the men with collars perfectly popped, the women with pink pedicures glistening in the soft station light.

I judge them before I recall that beneath my canvas sneakers, my own toes are painted a pale pink, albeit by my own hand.

So I move my eyes upwards and leave them to linger on the Louis Vuittons slung over the bony shoulders before me, and the platinum cards being brandished nonchalantly at the ticket taker.

But I am saved from myself. For somewhere in between my stares and the prejudgment they inspire, I remember that despite the bags, the brands and the impeccable grooming, the wasps who flock eastwards on Friday eves with weekender’s plans for golf and boating and cocktails and beach...well, at 5:01 they’re all squashed onto the same sweaty train as the Bridgeport bound hard hats and the New Haven headed teens and one frizzy haired blonde girl with a big eared puppy and a bag full of books.

We’re all on this train together.