The Bus Stop Blues

Being rejected by a bus hurts too.

One of the most viscerally disappointing occurrences that happens to me on a much-too-regular basis is missing the bus. Sounds silly, but there’s nothing quite like hauling ass out of the door of my apartment to the bus stop only to witness the public transportation vehicle pulling away to pick up other people that aren’t me. And there I am, a good 300 feet from the cursed bus stop with my arm up in the air and my mouth ajar. Dumbfounded. Sad. Confused.

Funny, it feels like straight up rejection.

At this point, the questions begin to race around the circumference of my brain, occupying my mental bandwidth. ‘Why did this happen to me?,’ ‘why did the world wrong me like this?,’ “what did I do to deserve this?,’ ‘is there a hex on me?,’ etc. etc.

A really healthy start to the day.

After the slew of questions run their course, I enter back into present consciousness. I realize that my hand is still up in the air and I should probably close my mouth now. I lower my hand. This is me conceding to the fact that I will probably be late to work and there’s really nothing I can do about it. I straighten my clothes. I step back and wait. Because that’s all I can do: wait.

‘I’ll get it next time.’

The next day I wake up earlier.

I catch the bus.