I went to work early and I stayed late.  Too late.  Last one in line for the last-bus-of-the-day late.  That means that on a bus designed to hold 56 commuters, I was number 58, and I would have to stand.

Okay. “It’s a’right.  It’s all good.”  After all, I felt okay.  I had a happy song stuck in my head (These are a few of my fa-vo-rite things…) courtesy of the salt-n-pepper dred-locked geezer saxophone player on the street corner.  I thanked God that I caught a bus.  I was grateful I had my bad-ass, orthopedic-insert, open mesh weave super sneakers on.  I was grooving on the different view I got from a standing position – I could see the rivers and streams better…

Since I was standing, I went ahead and stowed my purse and tote bag in the overhead shelf.  Of course, by the time the bus made it through the next couple stops, there were now 66 people stuffed on and I had to move back so I was nowhere near in reach of my things.  That was okay because I took my phone with me.  I balanced enough to type a text message to the family to tell them I was going to be significantly late, but I had the misfortune of doing it as we passed the Langley Spy headquarters and they squashed my cell phone waves like a bug.  Trying to use your cell phone near spy land is like trying to fly your plane over the White House.  ‘Not going to work.

So, I settle in for the 90 minute ride.  There’s 18 inches between me and the person standing in front or in back of me.  This is good.  But not nearly that much space between me and the people in the seats on either side.  I try to position myself so I am not touching anyone, even while the bus pitches and sways.

I notice things.  Like, hmm, my wrist looks chunky in this sleeve length.  And, that man has square thumbs; how weird.  Most people’s are oval and his are squared off as if someone horizontally cut off the thumb tips.  Standing and staring at the ceiling, I learned how to get out through the emergency exit in English and in Spanish (Tire Palanca Completamente y Empuje Aqui = Pull Handle Fully and Push Here). 

It is “close” in here, which is to say, hot and sticky.  The man directly in front of me is sleeping.  I only see the top of his head.  He is bald, with a sweaty, matted “comb-over” trying in vain to cover a freckled, orangey bald scalp.  As the bus sways, so does his head, right into the aisle and I have to suck in so I don’t bump into him.  Eww.

I notice that as people pile on to stand one gentleman gets up and gives his seat to a woman.  One more suited man gets up and gives his seat to a thin Arab woman.  That’s it.  Everyone else has the “sucks for you” attitude about the standees.  This is okay with me. I don’t mind standing.

At least I am not tempted to fall asleep while standing.  I notice several people are fast asleep.  I marvel at the way they are able to keep their clasped hands quietly in their lap.  Whenever I try to clasp my hands, there is just too much tension – I guess my fat arms or tummy keeps the hands from closing easily without any pulling on each other.  Because whenever I fall asleep this way,I relax and, invariably the grip springs open with a sudden, sharp jerk that looks like I’m shooing birds!  I have never to my knowledge injured one of my fellow commuters with this move. Frankly, my options at that point are 1) open my eyes and pretend I meant to do that.  “Yeah, don’t mind me, I’m just brushing off the seat in front of me, stretching the hands…” which is patently ridiculous.  So I usually go for option 2) — after startling the bejesus out of my neighbor, I simply close my eyes again and either giggle or swear to myself.  I try to find a way to place my hands where, when I fall asleep, they won’t end up on my neighbor’s leg or worse.

But, I don’t have to worry about that while I am standing.  Forty-five minutes into the ride I am feeling the wear, though.  That knee that I’ve been treating with BenGay is singing to me.  I am more than glistening with sweat.  I slyly check out the people around me.  I see one woman sleeping to my left so I reach up and open the AC vent above her and point it out toward me.  Yes.  She didn’t notice.  It only mildly helps at this point, because between the bouncing and the swaying and the watching out the window my stomach is fairly ravaged and I feel like I’m going to hurl.  That would not be good.  My hands are also alternately numb or painful from hanging on so tightly around curves and such, steadying my sway so I don’t end up in someone’s lap.  I am grateful for the forearm weight work-outs I’ve been doing.  They must help.

Just when I think I don’t have enough deep breaths or cool air to make it without an explosion, the bus comes to its first stop in Leesburg where most of the passengers get off.  I am no longer smiling.  I am grimacing and holding my breath.  I shuffle slowly forward to my stuff and get it down from the shelf and I plop down in a seat to myself for the last 15 minutes of the journey.  I have an AC vent.  Fifteen minutes is enough for me to recover.

I reach my stop in Hamilton and walk to my car through an almost-empty parking lot.  I turn on my radio to Sirius Satellite “Spa” music — light, calming jazz.  I back out and make my way to the rolling roads home.  I open the sun roof and all the windows to inhale the heavenly deep green smell all around.  My adorably coiffed hair blows every-which-way in the wind as I speed along, exulting to the hills and clouds and sunshine till I come to my redbud-lined long driveway.  I pull in with a big smile, my left arm straight out of the car window, high-fiving the branches of the trees that hang low to greet me as I come by.  I am home.