In the waiting line

Waited on line* for thirty minutes in the below-thirty degree weather last night to see Q Tip DJ at Santos' Party House ... gave up when we were halfway to the front in favor of wandering the LES, finally ending up at Darkroom (nymag calls it the best bar to pick up a musician).  Instead of picking up a bass player, I picked a fight with the guy behind me on line for the bathroom, who I thought was trying to push his way to the front.  

The negative ends here, when this man, a beam of light in that dark and not-so-subtly-puke-perfumed room, rocked my perspective on line-waiting entirely.  "Sorry, baby," he said in reaction to my scowl.  "Didn't mean to push."  

Sorry? In New York? Phew, that's refreshing. Maybe I'm the jerk here. "It's okay," I replied.  "I'm just not doing well with lines today."  

"I get you, girl.  If you want my opinion, waiting on lines isn't so bad as long as you know how to smile and look around properly, take advantage of the view."  He was right. When I exited the stall (after performing a complex leotard-tights-removal-redress feat), I made sure to get a good look at his gap-toothed grin.  The lift in spirits was well worth the wait.

* Apparently, "in line" is the proper terminology for everyone but New Yorkers ... plain ol' city snobbery or a legit argument for separate status? Third option is the Aussie version, but "queue up" doesn't sound nearly as good without the accent.