I hate buses

I have a long standing hatred of buses. An absurd statement I know. But let me clarify. I do not mean dislike, un-fond of, dislike, uncomfortable with, uncomfortable in. I am talking about pure, deep seated, unequivocal hatred. My favorite scene in Speed was at the beginning when Dennis Hopper succeeds in blowing up the first bus. I love it in the Disney movie Enchanted when Prince Edward somehow finds himself atop a NY city bus, thinks it is a mechanical ogre (a wonderfully apt analogy) draws his sword and stabs it. Again let me state clearly and precisely. I hate buses!

I hate yellow ones. I hate non-yellow ones. I hate ones named after dogs and ones that smell like dog feces. I hate empty ones and full ones. I hate ones that run on time…HA! As if! And I sneer and cackle with evil delight at ones broken down. Old, new, pink, purple, big, small; I hate them all. I hate them all, I say!

I feel certain this hatred started with the first brown seated, cold steeled, reeking of gas, jammed windowed, dirty yellow valueless antique that would stop in front of my driveway on weekdays from September to early June. Don’t get me wrong. I loved school. I hated the bus! Whose idea was it anyway that poorly tanned leather strapped to metal without cushioning would be safe or comfortable? And shocks? Hello! Was the school system really so poor as to be unable to afford shocks? Well, clearly the answer to that question was a resounding “YES!” Let’s shake and beat the snot out of little kids that will make them study harder. And what is the deal with gear shifts in buses? There isn’t a way to design a manual transmission for a bus that allows the changing of gears without the sound of fingernails running down a chalkboard? Man I hate buses!

You might think the green vinyl covered hard foam seats would have eased my hatred. It didn’t. What did they put in that vinyl that made the newer safer seats more uncomfortable than the dead cow skin strapped to steel? And the smell, what was that? They soaked the vinyl in formaldehyde?

Things got no better in Jr. High. We lived less than two miles from the school on a country road. It took the bus longer to wind through our subdivision than it did for me to walk to school…not that I was allowed to do that. “OH NO!” they cried, you can’t walk to school; you can’t ride your bike to school. These words and so called reasoning retching out of the same mouths that complained of having to walk five miles to school, barefooted, up hill both ways, in ten inches of snow, while carrying their own desk and books to school when they were kids. “The bus is safer,” oh yeah, as if they knew; they walked.

Once upon a time I sang. I even sang in a group. And this group toured every summer. We toured in this WWII army bus that made the old brown seated yellow bus seem like a luxury limousine. Oh yea, and these are the people saying the bus is safer…as if!

I also don’t want you to think I have never had fun on a bus. Oh trust me, I have. Band trips, I mean come on, I still have stories from those trips I don’t repeat in proper company! Doesn’t mean I still didn’t hate them.

I thought buses might get better once I moved overseas. I don’t ask for a lot. But if I am going somewhere I like to know when I am going to leave and when I am going to get there. And I would like to be relatively sure I am going to get there alive. And for the record, being on a so called bus with wildlife is not nearly as exciting as one might think. Being on a so-called bus in Papua New Guinea with wildlife while forging a river and hoping not to be held up by a band of rascals…chapters of my life I could have lived without. Being on a “special bus” to get me over the border from Malaysia into Thailand in the middle of the night is just an overcrowded nightmare. Clinging for dear life to the side of a so-called bus in Thailand in order to make it to the train station on time…really not as exciting as it sounds. Being lost in Beijing, and having to take a bus that smells like a squat toilet and that makes you feel like a ramen noodle its so crowded; there is no joy in that! I hate buses.

Twice a week I get on a bus with my daughter to take her to and from ballet. I literally feel nauseous every time I approach the things. In this one case it is technically more convenient to take the bus than the train. But the train comes every three minutes. The bus is “supposed” to come about every ten minutes. I hate the waiting. I hate the feel of my knees banging against the seat in front of me…as if there is room to sit with the place for the wheelchair and all the reserved seats for the old people and chicks with babies. I hate standing on a bus. I hate all the stopping and starting. Explain to me please how a nearly empty bus can feel more claustrophobic than a full train during rush hour? I hate buses.

So you can imagine my surprise and feelings of dread that engulfed me as I watched Pam sign us up for a bus trip with the neighborhood associations annual ski trip.  Buses, mountains, snow, cold weather;  a witch’s brew.  Having not only survived, but enjoyed this trip, I am forced to acknowledge the fact that maybe the only problem I have with buses is not being on them with Pam.