Yeah, I ride the bus.
That is what repeated in my head to the tune of the Go-Go's "We Got the Beat" (thanks, Subconscious, for digging deep into the infinite recesses of the Annoying to pull out that one) the first time I successfully rode the city bus several weeks ago. I was convinced I was doomed to failure at public transit, but it turns out even I am capable at this. That first ride, even despite my lack of a student ID card (= bus pass) due to the many malfunctions in my attempts to register for the classes I needed, I managed to my four quarters and could not keep from grinning like an idiot as I headed down the aisle of the 66 (is that even appropriate bus lingo? There are many buses on the 66 route. Clearly I am not a real bus aficionado).
(Massive Self-Interruption #1:)
And wait, did I forget to tell you what happened with the whole EWU letter and school sitch? I did? Well, what a treat I have for you.
For those of you who missed the last class, let me review for you: I applied for a Master's program in Mental Health Counseling at the last minute in late January, in some sort of postpartum haze. This was not my original grad-school plan. My original plan was to apply for a bunch of different things I have interest in (law school, philosophy PhD programs, even MFA programs) and decide from there. But this counseling thing was always presented to us (myself and my older brother Charles) by my mother as a sort of "backup plan" if we didn't know what else to do after college. I always assumed it would be very easy to get into, and relatively easy to get through.
I had an interview for the M.S. in Mental Health Counseling program in mid-March. This was probably the most terrible interview I have ever given in my life. I would like to blame the early morning (and late night), the many months of broken sleep, the severe case of Mommy brain, the nervousness, and many other things... But the fact remains, I was terrible. I was not the Summa Cum Laude graduate that filled out that application, nor was I the subject of those great letters of recommendation. I was an idiot in a stupid-looking jacket who gave the worst possible answers to every question. I said things like, "I am a people person." I hate it when people talk like that. I SHUN people who talk like that. I... talked like that. My dad took me out to breakfast afterward, and he asked what sorts of questions were asked. I gave an example, and he said, "Well that's an interesting one. You know, that would be a great opportunity to emphasize that although you do not come from a psychology background, your grounding in philosophy gives you a great foundation in looking at the way that human beings operate in the world, and..." If I were less of an idiot, I would be able to re-create for you his perfect answer, but I can't even quite remember that. The point is, it was perfect. It made me realize just how terrible my own response had been.
...And I have been obsessing about the whole event all day, every day ever since (oh, you noticed?), but I'm trying (not very hard) to let it go and realize that whatever happens is meant to happen.
HowEVER, what happened after that interview was not to my liking. What I wanted was a yes-or-no answer. What I got was a MAYBE answer. I was wait-listed. I remain wait-listed. I had to begin these prerequisite classes not knowing whether they were going to do me any good... this year, at least.
(End of Self-Interruption #1.)
So, back to the bus... In my giddy excitement at having successfully passed the show-up-on-time-and-board-bus portion of this test, the process of selecting a seat went something like this:
1. College-age girl with backpack and iPod? --No thanks.
2. College-age guy with backpack and iPod? --Not today, Sir.
3. Stinky, bearded old man with horrible, hacking cough? --OH YES PLEASE.
He smelled like Shady Old Motel or Shadier Old Apartment Building, both of which smell like a hundred years of stale cigarettes, unidentified animal urine, human body odor and dust. But I sort of expect that from the city bus-- stinky people come with the territory. But it was that cough that was freaking me out. With every hacking episode, I added another bottle of Purell to my mental shopping list.
Lucky for me, I managed not to come down with the Plague, made it to class on time, and even successfully got back on the bus for a return trip to Spokane. And I've done it many times since. And in fact, I love it even more than I thought I would. I am so tired of driving these days. My parents and Adam have made the commuting situation a lot easier on me; Adam takes her to my parents' some mornings, and my parents are usually willing to meet me downtown if I'm running late... or if they're just feeling generous (which is a lot of the time). Still... I just get tired of being in the driver's seat... and at the gas pump. So I am LOVING the opportunity to just be a passenger for 30-40 minutes, to people-watch or read or stare out the window.
And, to be slightly selfish, it's just a nice break for me from baby time. I love being home with Luci, and I feel so lucky to have been able to be home and not "need" to work right now. The first couple days of class, I felt like I was making a huge mistake by going back to school so soon. But now that we're both getting used to it, it's a really nice little break. I spend just enough time away from her so that by the end of class, I'm dying to see her again-- even if she DID keep me up 'til 2am or woke me up at 5. I find that when I'm home alone with her all day, my patience is thinner and I feel more worn out.
...And I don't know how, exactly, to explain that without sounding like a selfish beast ("Whew! Thank goodness I don't have to see my kid for a few hours some days!"), but it's just a big blessing to have a break AND know that she's in the best possible hands (besides mine. Cuz I'm THE bestest. Obviously.).
So yes. I love the break, and I love the bus. My friend Taylor is a graduate philosophy student at Boston College, and I am TOTALLY KIDNAPPING THE FOLLOWING from his recent blog posting. I've been pondering it as I sit squished with strangers on the STA buses:
"Anyway, the main drive of the paper as I see it is the irreducibility of the person to an object. Persons are ALWAYS inherently subjects. Now, by subject is meant someone who does the same kinds of things you do: think, will, participate in an interior life, love, dream. Everyone you meet is like this, whether you take the time to notice it or not.
I have a thought though... see, when we interact with other human beings, unless we can really befriend them they tend to just interact on the level of objects in our world... not in a necessarily dehumanizing way, just in a friendship of utility way. I find that when I "people watch" in some place like a bus or coffee shop (not anything like Hitchcock's Rear Window, that is just weird, thanks Paul), it is very easy to see them as subjects. Why? Because of the silence. They are participating in their interior life, a life that I will never participate in, a life that, if I am lucky, I will be able to catch glimpses of by spending my entire life getting to know one person.
There is a phrase I can't recall the origin of but speaks to this in a very Lewisian sense, 'The only response to the presence/face of the infinite is silence.' Here you are sitting in a group of strangers (it happens a lot) and it overwhelms you... all these little infinities off in their own - not little, never little - vast worlds. Can't you just sit back and glory in the wonders all around you?
That, my friends, is why I like riding the bus."
:)
And finally, there is a poem I desperately wish I remembered that involved the bus. A bar downtown used to have Poetry nights on Sundays, and people were free to come and share their work. There were some surprisingly high-caliber works that would pop up every so often between the pieces that utilized the F-word in every line and every possible grammatical role.
Anyway, the poem I wish I could remember now was from an MFA student at Eastern. I think (although I was drinking wine at the time) it was intended to-- mock? imitate?-- Robert Burns's very famous poem that goes, "My love is like a red red rose..." But the girl's poem went, "My love is like the city bus." And I hardly remember the rest, except that it was one of those good-humored, unpretentious poems that takes the ordinary and makes it beautiful. Maybe I will try to re-create my own version. Maybe she will later sue for plagiarism.
Did I not warn you I would write ridiculously long, incredibly pointless stories about my life? Luci is threatening to wake up, so I'll wrap up now. Until next time, when I return with more stories about my busy, bus-y life.
(HAHA! bus-y! Get it? Okay...)
