Now that we’ve properly dispensed of the winter coats here in Minneapolis, we have opportunity to see what the smartly dressed bus commuters are wearing this season.
Unfortunately, it’s reminiscent of last spring’s fare.
It is April, after all, and with the heady discarding of the winter woolens come the sandaled feet and ghostly limbs of the winter-paroled. Gone are the boots and the down coats, present once again are the Scarface/NASCAR/M&M jackets, the t-shirts proclaiming themselves to be “BUM Equipment”.
We’re a surprisingly pale people after six months of winter, and the sight of so many arms and legs in the thin, erstwhile sunlight of early spring has caused more than one man to walk into a lamp post. The local teenager, imprecisely aware of her effect on the casual observer, strides on, floating ruthlessly above the pavement, leaving many a man open-mouthed and vaguely disturbed in her wake.
But who is wearing shorts, and how they fit, this is not up to us, is it?
I watched as a woman boarded the bus last Friday. She was a good-sized gal, not bad looking, with the hair and nails of a much younger streetwalker. The temperature being in the mid-50s was not going to stop her from wearing this particular pair of shorts.
Oh, but if only it had. In a crimes-against-nature assault against those at the front of the bus in general and the clothing’s seams specifically, it was obvious that all that stood between her and an ambulatory medical exam were the bravest pair of shorts I’d ever seen.
Hang in there, little shorts!
In a move that sent me digging for the notebook I keep in my purse for just such occasions, she plopped down, spilling, fleshly, onto one of the inward-facing seats – but not before tugging a frightened bit of clothing from betwixt her cheeks.
It was the kind of move you make in the privacy of your own home.
Alarmed and amused, I pull my book out, write “I would not care to come back as this woman’s shorts”.
She is not the first rider to confuse public and private places.
But she is the first this season.
Having seen enough, I pointedly stare out the window until my stop; and when I look up, she is gone.
Spring. It’s not for the faint of heart.