Anyway, about 20 minutes into the stall, they announced we could leave the train through the front car and walk along a little ledge onto the platform at 42nd Street. This was a scenario I had not planned for. I mean, I am ready if the Cloverfield monster comes, but I am not ready to go meet those little bug guys on their turf.
Luckily, after this traumatic experience, which also involved me discovering one of my significantly-located shirt-button-holes was too large and was venting my chest on its own, I had my new Eileen Fisher catalog to comfort me. It's 72 pages on lovely over-sized paper with close ups of fabric.
Thank you, catalog porn.