Tales of the Bus Kind

I feel as if I’m repeating myself, with another Close Encounter of the Bus Kind so soon, but what can I do when the universe insists on throwing these things my way?

Monday morning, I collected what remained of my work ethic (having used up so very much of it Saturday) and propelled myself toward the bus. It was a typical Monday in that I sat next to a small South American woman, we smiled pleasantly at each other, and I arranged my yoga bag, lunch bag, and purse on my lap. I settled in for the short trip downtown, my iPod easing me into the work week.

It is apparent, however, even to me, in my depleted and sleep-deprived state, even before the bus stops again that the woman set to board is here to test us.

She is dancing, there on the corner of Ridiculous and Sublime. She is a very plump Brittany Spears wannabe, right down to the fedora. She steps on to the bus, singing “Ooooh, you got what I need…” She sits in the first forward-facing seat available, and her jeans, already perilously low, lower even further, and from my raised seat at the beginning of the back of the bus, both her tattoo and her thong underwear are more than just visible, they scream for attention.

There is visible recoil as every person on the bus leans back.

Even now, some hours later, I can still see the wide expanse of flesh between the bottom of her shirt and the top of her jeans.

The tattoo on her lower back (AKA “tramp stamp”) is done in characters, possibly Chinese for “this side up” or “unsafe at any speed”. The thong underwear (AKA “whale tail”) is bright pink, providing deep contrast to the blotched, pasty skin of her exposed behind.

She, of course, is unaware of any of this, and continues to dance, only now seated. I turn off my iPod and listen – from quite far back, actually – as she points out to the numerous other small South American women on the bus (who, in my experience, rarely speak or call attention to themselves in any fashion and are now actively ignoring her) how that building over there used to rent cars, baby; and baby, that bar over there has Bar Bingo on Thursday night…

Baby, baby, baby.

I look away, only to look back in time to see her pushing her earbuds into the ears of her seat mate. The poor woman is leaning away, but the Dancing Queen is not to be denied.

The intrusion is too much, however, and the poor woman takes the earbuds out, hands them back and moves to another seat.

In my head, I applaud her.

The Dancer exits stage right not long after that amidst a flurry of “have a good week, baby” and “baby, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” directed at the bus driver, who responds with “and what wouldn’t you do?” which only produces more “baby, I be seein’ you tomorrow, baby” nonsense.

Ack.

It’s official, people.

I am officially entering “My Golden Years”.

Damn kids.