They think it's me!

To venture to and from the safe confinement of the suburbs to the boisterous madness that is Manhattan during the week, we have to take the bus into the city. I hate the bus. I hate the bus for a NUMBER of reasons which I'm sure you'll read about in future blogs, but for the purposes of this blog entry, I hate the bus because while the price to ride the supposedly comfortable coach bus into the city is quite reasonable when you're able to sit in the air conditioned cushioned seats, it is absolutely preposterous when you have to stand up the entire way through our fine city twisting and stopping down Route 3, through the Lincoln Tunnel traffic into the hell hole which is the city.

That said, on this particular first hot day of the spring when I've hauled my "not quite fit for the wedding butt" from my office on 49th and 8th to Port Authority on 42nd and 8th weaving and dodging the other Bridge and Tunnel commuters as they push and pull their way through walking traffic to get on the bus, I'm sweating. It's hot. And the bus isn't quite on time so I've got to stand and roast and wait for the next one. Here's the thing: I'm not what you'd call a graceful person, I sweat. I've not only inherited my Dad's large nose, but I've inherited his ability to sweat as well and when I'm hot, I don't glow like other girls, I sweat. But I am a girl nonetheless and I wear my deodorant and my perfume and I SHOWER each day. I'm not an animal. The guy behind me hasn't showered since the invention of the wheel. I'm not trying to be graphic but this guy smells like onions and pastrami. Onions and pastrami that are way past their prime. He stinks.

Finally the bus arrives. Thank God we can board the bus and head home. Alas, as fate would have it there are no seats remaining and me and Stinky have to stand. We're near the front of the bus and of course we have to lift our arms to clutch for dear life so we don't topple on to the other more fortunate passengers who made it to Port Authority faster than we have.

And then I smell it again. This guy stinks so bad that the other passengers begin to cover their noses and then I see their faces. Do they think it's me!? What if they think it's me!? They think it's me! What do I do? We carry on through the Tunnel down Route 3 West towards home and then finally....

The bus bell sounds to signal that someone wants to get off and Stinky pushes his stinky self past me. When the doors open and he departs the bus, so does his smell. The passengers start to breathe again a couple of seats open up. I take a seat and breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God they know it wasn't me.

Now, when I see Stinky coming, I wait for the next bus....I'm not even trying to go through that again...I'd rather get home 30 minutes later than ride the bus with him. It's just not worth it.

h