Trauma on The Transit: Part III

Part II: All Aboard!!

People fascinate me; they always have. It probably sounds stalker-ish, but I love watching people. The way they talk, walk, and interact with one another is captivating. People-watching never ceases to bore me because people are all so different. Different—I’m sure that is what the bus driver thought of me as I shakily held out my student id to him on that first trip. The free ride the id was supposed to assure me seemed a little too good to be true. I felt like I was trying to pay for groceries with monopoly money. There was this horrible little feeling that this getting to school scotch free scheme wasn’t really going to work. My sweaty palms were ready to grab the coins I had carefully counted out and placed into my backpack pocket…just in case. My goal was to be invisible. Don’t cause a scene; don’t draw attention…just get to the seat and act normal. But after the driver nodded his approval, I turned towards the passengers and realized that normal was an ambiguous and over-rated term. My personal goal was to be invisible. Normally, I am a highly social talkative person, but having no delusions about my “street smarts”, I wasn’t going to try and make my daily bus ride a part of my social life.

Trauma on the Transit: Part II

Part II: The Bus Builds Character

It was most unenthusiastic, my introduction to the metro transit. I pretty much knew that it was coming, but I was not thrilled. For days I poured and pondered over all the possibilities. The funny thing about this whole situation is that I could have got a car, because I did have a job. I worked two days a week as an administrative assistant at a private Christian school (I took my mom’s car). It worked well. Although the pay was good, I did not make tons of money. I had this big plan. If I could somehow make it one more year, living with my parents and not having the expense of a car, then I could pay cash for a nice car. Debt has never been particularly attractive to me. This all sounded like a great plan…except for the whole bus thing.

Right about now in the story people usually think…“are you dirt poor?” But, they usually ask… “and your parents let you do this?” The answer to the unspoken question is, no…definitely not. The answer to the second question is “uh-huh”. My parents are the most amazing people I know. Never for a second doubted their love or felt uncared for growing up. But at the age of 17, my dad was living on his own, and my mom was eating strange things in India and riding elephants to school. So, little me riding the city bus just seemed kinda…not a big deal. The family stance on situations like this is that it builds character. After all is said and done, I totally agree. One of my heroes Helen Keller once said, “Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired, and success achieved.” If Helen Keller could see some of the people at the bust stop, I think she would still for sorry for me. (No pun intended.)

The university had a deal worked out with the transit station that students could ride free. If my dad drove me to the bus station (on his way to work) then I could get to school and back at no cost to me! Now, if you live in Chicago, LA, or New York City, you have no sympathy for me. I understand. If you are from here you understand that it is common knowledge that only “scary” people are on the transit. Well, I decided to join the scary crowd. This 5’9”, long haired brunette, blue wide-eyed Caucasian girl packed up to catch the bus.

Trauma on the Transit: Part 1

The title of this post may very well cause the natural assumption that this post will contain some astonishing account of a horrific or terrible tragedy which took place on a train or train-tracks. Let me set your mind at ease…it is not. Furthermore, I do not wish to insinuate that, due to some mechanical or human error, I suffered any sort of permanent physiological damage…I have not. The following posts contain stories, of a rather comical nature, that took place on the metro transit which caused me significant momentary disturbance. After enough of these disturbances, I soon discovered that they began to have a permanent effect on my life. After an incredibly insightful self diagnosis, I am now able to accept the fact that I have TT, otherwise known as Transit Trauma. The following reflections explain how I developed it. Without further ado, I give you Trauma on the Transit.

Part 1: Without Wheels

I am from the Midwestern area of America: the good old Ford truck drivin’, beef lovin’, Bible belt, urban sprawled-out part of our beloved country. In my part of the country, public transportation is not commonly used. It is believed to be used by the lower class, just because when you are 16 the “normal” thing is to get a car. I have never been normal. At best, normal is an ambiguous term; one I find to be highly overrated. Even though I am a middle class American girl, I received no car on my sweet sixteenth birthday. In high school, my parents were gracious enough to allow use of their car whenever I needed it. My parents wanted me to focus on education, so didn’t get a job. Free to focus on friends and school, my life was unburdened with all the expenses of a car, so I didn’t really miss possessing one. It was not until when I went to college that I began to strongly desire one. Originally, my plan was to move to Chicago where a car is simply unnecessary. After the normal “life doesn’t turn out the way we expect” routine, I chose to attend a university about 40 minutes away from my home. Even though it was in another city it was still very close. Being thrifty, I wanted to stay away from the incredible expense of living on campus. This was all well and good, but I somehow had to GET to campus. This is how I was introduced to the metro transit.

…to be continued

Weddings Make Me Angry...

but this was not the thought running through my head as I was getting ready to go. Before leaving, I was feeling just about as “bubbly” as the Colbie Calliat song as I smoothed out my black skirt. I’d been dancing around in my room to music for the last 15 minutes, but it was time to get on the ball and get to the ball. I still had to pick up a friend who was my “date” to the wedding, since her husband could not make it.

The fact that weddings make me angry was not a thought during the ceremony either. It was both a fun and beautiful service. The beautiful blushing bride with her beaming smile made it impossible for anything but smiles and joy to be present in the sanctuary. It was on the way to the reception I remembered why weddings make me angry. Somebody mentioned the words “throwing the bouquet” which made my toes curl and teeth grit together.

Last June, I was a bridesmaid. One of my dear friends was getting married, and it was my joy and privilege to be one of her bridesmaids. There were a great deal of good memories made the week of her marriage and I will cherish them always, but (there is always a but isn’t there) there was one most unhappy memory. At her wedding, when it came time to toss the bouquet she looked at me to start the grouping of single women. It was known among the wedding party that I was the only single girl. Rolling my eyes I started to the center of the room. While walking, my eyes naturally scanned the room for my fellow companions. No one was coming. I had been anticipating a group of green-eyed singles intent on getting their greedy little hands on the trinket that was supposed to herald the good news of impending love. But to my dread, after about 3 minutes, only two twelve year old girls were joining me. Come-on, I thought to myself. There have GOT to be real live single woman here besides just me. Again, I started scanning the room. I was NOT about to stand up and try and catch a bouquet with two pre-teens. Suddenly, my eyes fell on my rescuer. Without hesitating I started walking, my deep red bridesmaid dress rustled as I made my way across the room echoing the determination in my step. I bent down and looked the darling 3 year old girl in the eyes and said, “darling, would you like to come try and catch the bouquet.” Her big blue eyes stared up into mine questing who I was and my motive for talking to her. Her blond hair shook as her head motioned no. Darn it. “Are you sure?” I said it in my most charming princess voice. Her head again shook no. Darn it, again. Luckily her mom pretty much made her go with me. Poor kid, I think she suffered from stage fright. I say this because her plumb sweaty little fingers grabbed my hands tightly as we made our way back to the center of the room. Seeing what I had done enticed two more little girls to join the tragic group of “single” ladies at the front. The little girl didn’t let go of my hand. I asked her if she wanted to let go so she could try and catch the bouquet. Her head shook…no again; this kid was predictable. Well, I thought, the fact that a terrified three year old is clinging to me gives me a great excuse when I don’t catch it. I was right. One of those pre-teenyboppers got it. My friends sighed when I didn’t catch it…awwww, poor Kate. Better luck next time.

Next time was now. As I made my way to the reception, it felt like the Titanic was going down in my stomach. No one was gonna make that sigh for me. There was only two ways out of this anticipated outcome. Catch the darned bouquet or leave early. All of the sudden, I understood the desperation of catching the mass of beauteous flowers. It had nothing to do with the man, but the sigh! Avoid the sigh at all costs!!!

It is during the waiting time for the bride and groom to return from pictures that the single woman becomes painfully aware of her singleness. As everybody is snacking away on cheeses and croissant sandwiches, the conversation naturally turns to one’s own wedding. All the married women and men begin to tell the most entertaining stories of wedding mishaps, honeymoon stories, and even first year of marriage commentaries. By no means do I find these disagreeable; to the contrary, they are hilariously amusing and make time pass quickly. But at a certain point, the One is the Loneliest Number song starts playing my head. I have NO contributions to make in these conversations, and that makes me angry. I would like nothing more than to be married, but I am painfully unattached. My single status was mentioned at the reception table and IT came…the sigh. The stupid conversation brought it before the bouquet. There is nothing worse than the look of pity coming from married friends. It was to my great relief when the bride and groom made their dramatic entrance and saved me from the conversation. After watching their first dance and teary congratulations, my friend who I came with looked at me. “I’m tired,” she said with feeling. Mischievously I grinned at her, “do you wanna go early?” “And miss the bouquet?” she said back with a glint in her eye. I am happy to announce that we left promptly.

Arriving home, I plucked off my black stilettos while thanking God for not creating women like Barbies. (I can not imagine having angled feet where heels are a must.) Sprawling out on my bed, I looked at my ceiling and sighed for myself. There are moments when weddings make me angry. That is when I left discontentment and desire take over. Reflecting on the whole experience gave me some insight (that and something Mark Driscoll said in his sermon). It is fine to have desire, but I must be able to live contentedly in whatever circumstances I must live. God knows what he is doing. My job is do live for the Lord. That translates in this situation as being happy for my friends. My discontentment is like a disease that sits and festers. Emotions are real so there may always be a moment of sadness or desire, but I won’t let those turn to bitterness. My joy is not found in some imperfect man; my joy is in the Lord. His goodness and mercies are my stronghold, not the arms of a man. My purpose is to glorify God. SO…in the future…I will not let weddings make me angry. I do not want to contaminate my friends joy or taint a happy day. I will listen to their stories and desire to someday share in them, but be most content with the fact that when I go home…I only do laundry for one.

Jane Austen Watch Party

I am quite put out! As a consequence for taking on six classes (five of which are English), I am sitting here, on a perfectly lovely Sunday afternoon, working my fingers raw by doing homework. It is vexation to say the very least. I find myself doubly unhappy because tonight is Jane Austen Watch Party night.

I have several friends who all share a common appetite for works by the authoress Jane Austen. This season, PBS has remade most of the Jane Austen films. While it may seem comical, my friends and I meet every Sunday evening for tea and dessert. It is an evening of indulgence and entertainment. Without reserve, we sit around and criticize or complete the work upon its completion.

Today, I am irritable and loathing the sight of my monstrous texts. It is a grievous thing to miss the Jane Austen Watch Party.

Road Trips

My older sister and I decided to take a trip to Dallas this weekend. We both have been a little overwhelmed lately. She works in a CPA firm, which is less than easy during tax season, and I have been drowning in my six classes this semester. A weekend of fun visiting a friend sounded fabulous, so we threw some stuff in her car and headed south.

Somewhere between Oklahoma City and Norman, our poor foresight struck us. We had not really thought about it being Friday night traffic on Spring Break, nice. We seriously almost died once and got hit about ten times. It was insanity on I-35! About two hours into our trip, we were just past Norman. In short, traffic was wretched.

We were about to get grumpy, but a mixed CD, a stop at Starbucks, and a series of humorous events getting gas in Ardmore helped us pull ourselves back together. We laughed, talked, and sang our lungs out all the way to Dallas.

Looking back, this road trip helped me gain a little perspective. The last couple of weeks, I have been less than thrilled with life. Between work and school, life has not been fun. Normally, I’m a pretty happy person, but I’ve become grumpy and irritable. Life is a lot like I-35. It is busy and often unpleasant. You can let it turn you into a grouchy person, or you can rise about the situation. What is happening on the road may be crumby, but what takes place in the car can still be fun.