When it snows here, the bus is always late. It's expected, it's unimportant. Practically a virtue of the system. Sometimes, however, the bus is so late it starts picking up two busloads of people - the ones who have been waiting twenty minutes at the stop, and the ones who rush up as they see the bu apporaching. I always seem to be the former. Figures.
Yesterday morning was one of those mornings. At my stop, I squished into the front of the bus along with the 20 other standing patrons. The next several stops picked up a dozen or more people to the point where if we were naked, we'd be having an orgy. Somehow I managed to end up facing backwards, staring directly at the chest of the man who should have been behind me. Because of the twenty minutes spent in -13 degree weather, the wind blowing directly in my face no matter which way I turn, my nose is running. Of course my hands are now occupied, one with my work bag and one holding for dear life onto the "oh shit" handle. So I'm trying to breathe through my mouth to avoid excessive drainage from said running nose.
As all bus drivers have that evil streak - the one that makes them speed up just a little to watch the would-be patron jogging lightly up to the stop break into a full on sprint and slam their hand against the closed doors - my bus driver chose now to slam on the breaks, causing me to french kiss the chest of the man behind me.
I suppose this isn't as bad as the time, in college, I was riding the campus shuttle which followed the campus loop and was therefore always taking sharp turns; while I was adjusting my 14 heaving books, 16 binders, 22 notebooks and obligatory make up kit (I was in a sorority after all) I lost grip on the handle above me at just the moment when the driver took one of those sharp turns. I actually spun around and sat on the lap of the guy lucky enough to have the seat next to me. Luckily for me, he was cute, and I managed to play it off with a few coy giggles.
This time however, french kissing the chest of the man behind me, leaving drool and probably snot on his jacket, just didn't seem as giggle-able. Though I did try to bust one out for old times sake...what else was I to do? He allowed me to pull it off, even telling me my smile should be in a commercial. And then, of course, with all my effort in averting my eyes and avoiding any further confrontation before my stop...he began to talk to me. I could literally taste the pancakes and sausage he had for breakfast on his breath we're so close. I have to bend my neck into a direct 90 degree angle to see his face. And he thinks its a good time to chat? Apparently he does. Apparently he is a very chatty man once you've french kissed his chest. Everyone should try it!
But after having done something so intiment as french kissing the man, I felt the least I could do was talk to him afterwards. So now I'm packed in like a sardine with 30 close neighbors listening to all my private life details; where I work, whether my jacket is warm enough for this weather, how exactly one sleeve of my jacket came to be ripped (the dog ate it...no really, the dog ate it), how long I had to stand at the bus stop this morning, what bus I should have actually taken to get to work on time and therefore the fact that I shouldn't have had to wait at the bus stop during that time at all, what time it is that I should have been at work...just the type of information I want 30 of my closest bus-mates to know. Along with, of course, the maple and brown sugar oatmeal I ate for breakfast.
I hope it snows again tomorrow!