Public Transportation Trepidation

I, Anika Clark, am a survivor of Public Transportation. This epiphany struck on a long walk one summery Wednesday, where I concluded the word "transit" really tricked one into thinking there might be a lot of sitting involved. "Trek-it" seemed more appropriate that late afternoon months ago, though last night's dream is still vivid.

With excitement, I had boarded the bus from Kirkland to the University District. The term "Express" accompanied the number, 540, and I felt empowered. This is the sort of endeavor which, I am embarrassed to admit, reveals my true identity as a suburban novice. A novice characterized by only knowing the places she knows, dislikes asking for directions, despises getting lost, and harbors a particular hatred for instruction manuals. I would only realize the fatality of this combination later in the day, after several hours and miles in the wilds of Seattle and its surrounding territories. For the moment, I was both proud and enthused to immerse myself in "the people," to mingle in the circles of society, on the bus; this would make me modern, independent, and cosmopolitan. Right.

I had already been riding the Express Bus to the University of Washington campus for several mornings, easy enough since it stopped right where I needed it to, without me having to figure out how to push the signal/pull the cord (I couldn't really tell which). So far, hoping someone else would take care of this for me before we went sailing on past my stop had been working out splendidly. All was following suit that morning, I mused as I munched on my breakfast while admiring an undisturbed view of Lake Washington. We really did seem to be floating freely on the water as I had imagined as a kid, and it was nice to not have to be concentrating on the road. At this point, a serious false confidence was instilling itself in my head.

Sure enough, as the bus approached my destined stop, some blessed person pulled the cord, a muted bell dinged. In the woosh of airbrakes, I hopped off began a morning of class, coffee, studying, and then, feeling subsequently enlightened, decided I would head home. I knew the same bus made return trips to Kirkland about every half hour, so made my way over to the same stop. Unfortunately, after walking the 10 blocks back (I had not meant to wander so far...), I saw that I had just missed it and would have to wait. Oh well, it was a pleasant day, if a bit sunny, so I sat down and tried to make sure I looked like I knew what I was doing there. Thirty minutes later, I skipped onto my bus and was on my way. Sometime I would have to change busses to arrive at my house and I hadn't managed to look this up beforehand. But how hard could it be? Kirkland wasn't that big, and after my smooth morning experience, I wasn't worried. Hmm.

I figured getting off at the library would be opportune; I could use the computer and plan out this "route" home; in reality, I wasn't very far from home anyway, and naturally assumed this would be an easy task to plan. And it was--at least in terms of typing in my starting and ending points and pulling up the logistical information. The variable that would prove the problem would not be the King County Metro Trip Planner, or even the King County Metro itself, but me. Which is embarrassing.

The bus stop I needed was up the hill from the library-I could go directly home from here. Great! ...Wow, this hill had never seemed so steep from my car window...I trudged along with a bag full of books and other "essentials" I was quickly finding quite unnecessary. I had nearly reached the street above and saw the bus stop sign on the left side, just a few feet from the intersection. Checked the watch, a good 10 minutes to spare. Perfect. Somewhere between seeking shade and checking my watch again, I saw a bus breeze by about eight minutes later...wait, why did that bus say, "Factoria 245?" That was funny, that was supposedly the one coming to this stop...? It was then I realized an important detail: there is a reason why there are bus stops on both sides of the street. One for coming and one for going. I was on the wrong side of the street. And I had just missed my bus home.

Ok, ok, wait twenty minutes or just buck up and walk home? Why, walk of course, after all, I was an able-bodied young woman this side of a quarter century. And yes, that past tense verb "was" has been carefully chosen. I set off and immediately began to feel the heat of the day in the form of a trickle down my back. Among the many things that might perturb me on a daily basis, sweating is one of them. I hate sweating. I began to hate every step more and more as the incline increased. I began hating my books, the other ridiculous things burdening my bag, which was burdening my shoulder. I hated walking, I hated...it was then that I began to feel the familiar sensation of frustration-induced irrational tears behind my eyes, a disgusting response that has plagued me since childhood.

There I was: dragging, drooping and sniffing my way up the long hill home in a most unsightly fashion. No little blue engine mentality here. At least I couldn't see myself, otherwise I would have cried more. It was tough being all alone, but what was worse was the disaster the day had turned into. Just because I didn't know how to ride a silly bus, humiliating. I would not be calling for help like some little weakling though. I would suffer...I would...sniff sniff.

I eventually arrived home, throwing my bag and myself on the floor--actually, I sort of fell through the doorway onto the carpet, utterly and completely exhausted. Such great expectations certainly make for such epic fails. Since that fateful trip, I have mustered up the courage to get back in the saddle, so to speak, and ride again. Always with a book, always with a fully-charged ipod and sometimes a first aid kit, because you just never know. No more catastrophes thus far though; knock on wood, knock on paneling, knock on vinyl linoleum, knock on something, lest I knock myself right out again.

Matters of the Heart.

I hate sentimentality, such needless tears and drama. Because of this, I hate romantic comedies-the illegitimate emotional playing to the audience makes me want to eat my heart out, but for opposite reasons than the movies intend. This, in addition to the painfully obvious plot-lines that one could trace despite having no fingers, lost to frostbite after exposure to said comedies, makes the genre irritating.

But you know what's even more nauseating? The horrid truth that I become an insomniac, that my stomach tosses, that I worry till my eyes hurt because of sentimental, emotional responses to just about every damn thing that happens to me. I am, in a word, a girl. And I type this word, highlight it, and click "italics" with a fair amount of disdain.

I would say I wish I could figure my condition out, but the truth is, when I start poking around, it just gets worse. Instead of logical reasoning, I only find layers upon layers of soft mush that are mushing together in quite an unappetizing manner. So I'd rather not think about it, but then I can't forget it either. It's the mania in me, what can I say...that's why it's best to stay silent. And not snoop in dark corners.

The heart of the matter is that I am beginning to understand why I hate sentimentality so much. I am, apparently, exhibiting a very concerning reaction against what I am. This seems unhealthy and even more pathetic than a romantic comedy.

This all being said, a bit of an explanation is probably merited. There are too many tales of such moments in my history to relate in their entirety, but a handful is all we need...

Caldwell, Idaho, 1992: Anika the Child runs into her room, throws herself upon a flower-print comforter face up, and screams for five piercing seconds, out of unexplained frustration. She lies on her bed in the silence afterwards, thinking about the scream.

Elementary school, 1996: Anika the Prepubescent Adolescent cries in the bathroom stall after overhearing a piece of ridiculous gossip fabricated about her by people she doesn't like. She blames herself for their hate and keeps crying.

High school, 2000: Unrequited love and rejection in no way damper Anika the Tiny Teenager in her devotion to that Pimpled High School Boy and she looks for moments to be around him. She feels a sense of validation that makes her cheeks warm when he says she is cool and a good friend...just not a girlfriend.

College, 2005: Anika the Idealist dates a melancholy musician and believes she can save both of them from himself. She argues with her dad who says it will never work. She only realizes after seven dramatic months the fame that she could have claimed from actually crying a real river.

Current era: Anika the Adult is confused by how un-adult she can behave, how easily she bruises. Such unwarranted sensitivity strikes her as stupid and silly. It makes her want to go to sleep for a long, long time.

But she can't, trust me. Insomia...

It seems in matters of the heart, what matters is the heart. Expressions like this make me wish I was a jellyfish, which has no heart. It also has no brain and no bones. Perfect.

Note to Self:

There is something therapeutic about writing--I've always known this, as I inevitably turned to paper and now my laptop whenever in a melancholy mood. Lately, I've also felt the urge to write to stave away the fearful feeling that my life is futile, that I'm getting old. It's not my age that bothers me exactly--though the tentative beginnings of fine lines on my face does make me lean in for a closer look, then back away again because ignorance truly is bliss. Rather, it's the thought that I am getting older and there's a heck of a lot left on my "to-do" list, things I've always envisioned accomplishing while young--actually young, not just at heart. And so I write because, A) writing lets me "get it out," relatively painlessly and without judgement; B) I like writing and therefore feel a little happier having finished some little ditty that amuses me, and C) there are these secret hopes and desires that have been festering since I was a child--that I might write and publish some day, you know, just for fun. My writing also bleeds into the lyrical category, accompanied by music, sung by an oddly familiar voice.

With these things in mind, my 26 years seem to stretch out in front of me, languidly, but too much so, and I feel like giving them a nice quick kick, a proper scolding for being so relaxed. So what if I cry...

Because it's not just enough to have ideas--I know this. It seems my fatal flaw is a lagging volition--keeping my feet moving. Children's author and illustrator Tommy de Palo once wrote, "First one foot, now the other." This is the best kind of mantra for me. Swimming the English Channel takes some paddling along the way, stepping on the moon means miserably unrecognizable meals , and much as I would like to believe that for three easy payments of $19.95, my life can be changed, there's always the shipping and handling.

There you have it, or rather, there I have it, since this is a "Note to Self." The shadows of my previous melancholy this week are in hiding for the moment under a splendidly sunny sky today. My skin is happy, my fingers warm. I will refer to these musings from October to March.

"First one foot, now the other." I'm on the pavement now, and I'm walking.

French Toast.

This morning I woke up before my alarm rang, but didn't get up because I didn't want to get up, even though I've always heard it is best to get up when you awake naturally the first time. Thursday is a day of rebellion for me, having fought through the week thus far with a smile, sometimes slung precariously on my face, but there all the same.

Thursday is a day when I am both tired and the most apathetic because I am tired and no longer care as much as I would under more healthy circumstances about being so unhealthy. In addition, with Friday around the corner, I feel invincible to any consequences my apathy will provoke. Such morbid musings are common on a Thursday and today is Thursday.

These were my preliminary thoughts this morning as I lay in bed, attempting to ignore, most rudely, my bedside clock. I then thought about wardrobe options for the day, but that proved too rigorous at that hour, and was saved for my shower, a time when I struggle to come up with all kinds of solutions to life's many difficulties while hot water beats on my head. Lately topics have ranged from balancing my budget, last minute lesson plans, whether or not I should shave, and today, what to wear. Success rate is ok, given my state of mind, but only if the water is quite hot.

Finally, face, hair, and clothing taken care of, I meandered out to the kitchen, drawn magnetically to the next station in my morning sequence: French Press Coffee Device, because morning will stay morning without it. As I listened to the kettle simmering and the faint hum of two overhead fluorescent tubes, toast began to sound delicious and that, possibly mixing subconsciously with the blessed title "Fresh Press" evoked a hell of a good idea: French Toast. I only eat French Toast about two times a year because I only think of it two times a year, and it always remains a randomly novel food choice that both excites me and makes me feel creative. A quick whipping of eggs, salt, and pepper, a dousing of sourdough in said mellow elixir, momentary sizzling in the pan, enter butter and maple syrup = happy me.

Strange how something so inconsequential should make me feel so tickled. All of Thursday's depressive density meant nothing. Apathetic again? Sure, about Thursday's nonsense. But oh so optimistic about my French Toast.

Yes, please, thank you.

Fetus.

While sitting on this Sunday morning, distant memories of a blog I once use to keep up meandered through my mind. Oh that one! Yes, this one, six months since. Today, my brain feels the biological bursting of six months of incubation. I'm a little worried about what I will find in here, but I'm going to investigate and figure it out...

Shorty Get Low...cause I'm collapsing on the dance floor.

The lights were low, giving everything a luminous glow, though I could see paint peeling on the walls, the bar chipping. Keeping things dim was a management move, apparently. Not that anyone would really notice anyway, in their revery.

While contemplating with some horror the way the DJ was mixing clashing beats as he changed songs, I saw them: the couple. The couple on the dance floor, gettin' down. Literally.

And though this may sound like it's about to become quite steamy, only in the sense of glazed, glazed with pain. Hip pain.

His shorty was doing her thing, swaying and dropping in slow motion, but as I watched, I began to sense a sort of disconnectedness between the couple. He was standing before her, seemingly enjoying the moment...but was he?

At first I thought the slight grimace on his face was the tough guy exterior popular among dancing dudes-the expression that says "Yeah, that's right, she's my girl, we got it going on" and "I am not homosexual," not that you would even mistake that part because he's much to tentative and off-rhythm. The grimace was definitely there and as I observed, with growing curiosity, it also grew. She was short and as she balanced below his chin and out of viewing range, he went ahead and closed both eyes tightly. This guy has a problem! I thought, is he ok?

Why no, actually. His fist was balled up tight on his right hip, near the socket--he had injured himself in some sort of mishap and any sort of movement was eliciting a painful response. So ok, the guy was hurting, his girl was clueless (completely absorbed in "her thing"), so why was he attempting to dance along with her? Honestly, she seemed quite fine with solo work, but he was also moving in an awkwardly stiff sway-from the hips no less, well, hip, since only one was working properly. It was a slow rock back and forth, leg braced and sticking out. I realized I was grimacing too.

The grand finale of this side-show was his "drop down." While she was waving serpentine, he began to drop lower and lower in front of her, until his hip kind of gave out and he resorted to "embracing" her knees--out of "adoration," and mind-blowing system failure. At this point, I could no longer contain myself and laughed out loud, loudly under the cover of the fat beats booming from the speakers-thank you Mr. Bad DJ for at least the disguise of distraction. I have no idea how he pulled it off, but Bad Hip Boyfriend managed to wrangle his way back up, with the aid of her waist I think (though I'm sure he was cursing her for twisting it so much in his time of need). He actually kept at it for a surprisingly long time, until they walked out, shorty bouncing toward the door, battle-beaten boyfriend dragging along after her.

His leg was the last to exit the building.

How now...

Are you an educator?

Are you tired?

Are you sick?

Are these three strangely synonymous?

Does the "sick and tired" persist on your off-duty?

As Lucille Ball once asked so eloquently, do you "pop out at parties and feel unpoopular?"

Thank goodness there are little breaks here and there to save us from utter decomposition, but in the mean times, endurance is of the essence. In those wearisome class periods, end-of-the-quarters, and semester finals, the following ideas may come in handy.

Survival Tip #3: Multifaceted to Fit.

1. Use solid-colored drink containers for whatever beverage makes you happy.

2. Bulk up on snacks, I mean, bring lots of snacks on which to bulk up on...never mind.

3. For fielding those inevitable futile questions, use the "Five Finger Sign," a simple open hand up in the face of the curious terrorist.

Regular forms of said futility:

• "Can I have more time on this assignment? I was sick, my internet mysteriously broke, my grandma died, and then my goldfish too."

• "Can I turn in these assignments from last semester? Last school year? Cause the same class is offered this year too-I'm just not in it, but I was."

• "Can you arbitrarily change my grade even though I've done nothing to merit this senseless act? How about if my mother comes in and threatens you and says things that make no sense? Do higher authorities have veto-rights over your gradebook?"

Sometimes "No" just doesn't work; the "Five Finger" is a little more believable. Plus, it saves

on the voice and gives you time to ponder things like, "I veto YOU."

4. The Grand Finale, the "Go-to"

Sick and tired? Clearly, you need to lie down and just go to sleep. Right now. No veto.