I've wanted to write this blog post for awhile now but I haven't because, well, it's super easy to procrastinate at things. But I think about it a lot, particularly when I'm driving home after small group on Sunday nights. See, I spend almost every Sunday evening with four people who are very, very important to me and my life, but are also people that a year ago I only passively knew. (That's crazy, right guys? You're like, "Nah, Katrina, we've been hanging out for forever!" But that's not the case. Nope, nope.) So every Sunday, when I'm driving home, there's this kind of warmth in my heart that manifests itself whenever you can really feel like you're part of something meaningful, and I get stunned by the fact that these people who mean so much to me now are people that I only kind of knew this time last year.
That was really sappy, and I'm sorry. I don't really like talking about my feelings and it kind of makes me uncomfortable that I have them in general but, alas, I do. You should know, because we're on this "feelings" tangent anyway, I don't really low-key like friends. Pretty much all of my friends I'm just walking around like, "THIS IS THE COOLEST PERSON EVER AND THE BEST PERSON I KNOW" and, yes, I'm talking about you. Probably. No, not you, that other one, over there, yes YOU!
Okay, cool, now that that's over with, let me assign some meaning to this mumbo-jumbo mush-gush ever-(friend)-loving ramble I've been on: a lot changes in just three-hundred-and-sixty-five-days.
That seems obvious, right? But I'll be honest: I have a hard time remembering that.
24 is supposed to be rough, right? That's why the show had so many explosions and frantic bald dudes. (I've never seen 24. It's about the age, right? No? Huh.) Well, I think 24 is supposed to be rough. Or at least I tell myself that when I get slightly crazed and exhausted. So, sometimes, when I'm going about my day, living life as a twenty-four year old, I get it in my head that things won't ever change. No, not like in the happy way eight year olds think summer, sprinklers, ice cream trucks, and being eight will last forever. In a more frightening way. In a "student debt, constant exhaustion, loneliness, and living off $2.00 boxes of pasta will last forever" kind of way.
There's a lot of stuff about my life right now that's not how I ever would have pictured it. Like, not even the part of me that was practical and knew that life is hard and work is reality and the economy crashed so now business only want to hire part time workers pictured my life like this. I mean: I work two part time jobs. And, despite the fact that I love both of them, I think whoever is trying to collect on my student loans would agree the situation isn't ideal. I still don't have a boyfriend, a pet rabbit, or enough money to visit Renee in Australia. I still haven't figured out how to figure out how to make any of my personal projects profitable. So when I'm running from one job to the other, eating $2.00 pasta mixed with whatever vegetable is featured in all my meals that week, and using my thrift-store shirt to try and rub a mysterious stain off of my thrift-store dress I think, "This is okay for now, but..." and then I imagine myself doing all the same things with the all same scenario as a thirty-six year old and I get a little bit panicked.
But then, every now and again, I can quiet the voice in my head that says "whatever is hard about right now will always be hard forever and things will never ever ever change" and at those times I can remind myself that things have already changed so much.
I feel like I need to take a breath for a second to assure you: life is actually super good right now. I don't want it to seem like I'm complaining or anything. I'm not trying to do that, so if it sounds like I am: I'm really sorry. I have two jobs. I have a solid support system formed by family, friends, and my church community. I'm armed with an education and a dry wit that won't quit. (Kind of maybe sometimes.) So, yes, sometimes things can be hard and discouraging, but that's life, and the things that are hard right now I can deal with because, right now, I'm young and still relatively full of energy. So I'm not complaining, okay? I just am taking a moment to reflect and remind myself (and you, reader, you, too) that life is always moving forward. Sometimes it can feel kind of stagnant. But it's not!
Okay, so, I'm going to rewind a bit and revisit this time last year.
Exactly one year and twenty-six days ago, I was unemployed. After graduating, I had a terrible, terrible time finding a job. Two things were working against me. First, I got kind of a late start on applications because right before graduation I was informed that I hadn't completed one of my course requirements, that I had genuinely, genuinely believed I had completed. (It's a long story filled with boring technicalities. I'll save it for another day. Just kidding I'm never going to tell you that story because it's exhausting.) So, I was in something like a dispute with my college as to whether or not my degree was complete for several weeks. Eventually, it got sorted out, I graduated, and there was something clear to tell future employers. The other thing working against me was: despite the fact that I knew the job market wasn't stellar, I was convinced that I could find this one particular type of job. (Salary, benefits, full time, office probably.) As time passed, I started looking outside of those criteria, but by then I had a chunk of time that I'd been "unemployed" which made me "unimpressive" to potential employers.
Exactly one year and twenty-five days ago, I started working, part-time/hourly, at an insurance office. A friend helped me get the job. I was relieved to be working even though it was just part-time and it was just hourly and it involved staring at applications on a computer screen for four straight hours.
Shortly after getting hired at the insurance office, I pulled out of my unemployment-induced depression which did several things. First, it mostly cleared up my skin. (Thank goodness and knock on wood.) Second, it made me a more pleasant person to be around. (Seriously, I'm just thinking back to what a brat I was one year ago and I'm actually shuddering. My poor friends and family!) And finally: it got me back to church.
Being back at church has made a huge impact on my life. Here are just a few ways that my life has changed since being back at church: I now have the aforementioned small group. They're some of the best friends I have. The first time I went to Amy and Ian's house, I chucked their teapot off their deck and broke it in half, and then they still let me come back a couple of times (in fact, they gave me free reign one weekend when they were out of town, just because I said I'd feed their dog). Jake is forever having to put up with me hanging out in their living room while Jen is forever having to put up with me talking to her for hours. (Seriously, I'm a little surprised they haven't hired a bouncer or something?) Not to mention, despite the fact that I'm not related to any of them, they all still hang out with me after that one time we played Nertz. (I honestly don't think my family would keep putting up with me post-Nertz if we weren't blood.) Since being back at church I also have weird responsibilities now. Care Team, Leadership Team, and once a month I write Miracle Word. Responsibilities-galore. Most importantly, I have a sense of belonging.
Eleven months ago, I started working my second part-time/hourly job. I became a page at a public library. After about two, maybe three, weeks I was sold: this was the best place I'd ever worked. I was surrounded by books. Books that I could take home at the end of the night without losing a chunk of my paycheck! I liked everyone I worked with. I liked the environment, I liked the bookshelves, I liked that sometimes the break room would be full of baked goods.
In May, my life really felt like it was progressing towards real-life, full-blown adulthood. I moved out of my parents' house and into an apartment with a friend from college. Along with that, I started owning weird things that a person can own. Like mixing bowls. Now I have mixing bowls! My own mixing bowls! Not my mom's, but mine! (Okay, yeah, so they were originally my mom's but now they're mine and that's my point.)
So, between October and May, things were steadily getting better, right? Jobs, Jobs, Clear Skin, Church, Apartment... Well, in June things slid back a notch. My car caught on fire. I don't know if there's a kind of "car fire" that your car can make it through, but if there is... well, this wasn't it. After one distressing evening of "OH NO EVERYTHING IS BROKEN AND I CANNOT FUNCTION ANY MORE" I bounced back. "This is just my new situation." Became my mantra. I figured out the bus system, after a few missed stops, and started kind of navigating my way around the city. (Side note: I did get threatened, but only once. I think. After that I started wearing headphones.)
In July, things got a little bit worse when my position got "dissolved" from the insurance office. (Side note: the "little bit worse" refers to my financial situation. The job had been progressively getting more stressful and I had been continuously feeling less appreciated. So, honestly, getting dissolved was probably the best thing for my soul, just not the best thing for my bank account.)
By August, though, I'd found new employment. I worked for about a minute at World Market before getting hired at a spice shop. At the spice shop, I have always felt encouraged, supported, and appreciated. The supervisors take genuine interest in the ideas of associates and my coworkers all double as friends.
I also got promoted at the library.
In September, my grandparents graciously gave me one of their cars. It's beautiful and adorable and every time I drive it I think about my grandparents, I feel loved and supported, and I feel humbled. They were so kind and generous, and I know that there wasn't anything I did, or could ever really do, to make me deserving of that.
And, now, we're back in October. In the past year, I have had four separate employers and five different positions. I have had two cars, and the opportunity to figure out the bus lines. I re-watched all of Gilmore Girls (once, though if you ask my brother, he'd say it was three or four times.) I went from "oh, d'you remember that that one girl..." at church to a member of the "will agree to help out" team. (Is that a team? No? Huh. I thought it was.) Former acquaintances have become official friends (as have coworkers, total strangers, and some of the baristas at my favorite coffee shop).
Okay, okay, okay, see, this is getting kind of long-winded. Which I guess isn't really necessary, right? The point is: life goes on. In the past couple of years, I have had some really stressful, trying, hurtful, and tumultuous times. But, when I just take a step back, it's easy to see that life is ever evolving. Have you ever heard that question: "What were you worried about one year ago today?" See, what I'm trying to say is this: things feel so big when you're going through them, they can feel like they'll last forever. But, they won't, see? Eventually, the seasons change. The storm ends. You get to the other side just by taking steps forward.
It'll be okay, I guess. That's what I'm trying to say.
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Sunday, August 2, 2015
My Instagram Freaks Me Out
Sometimes, when I look at my Instagram, I think this person isn't me. I mean, of course, she is me. Or at least, she has the same face as me, does the same things as me, eats the same food as me, has the same parents as me. It's just, she doesn't really seem like me. She seems more like the fun-house mirror reflection of me.
She's happier. She has more adventures--and the adventures she has she views as adventures and not as hassles. She's more observant. She finds something to laugh about everywhere she looks. Everything, to her, is interesting or beautiful or entertaining. She always has somebody to hang out with or something to create. She's always polished. Even when she's goofing off, she's at least posed enough to be somewhat poised.
She's all the best bits of me.
She's creative.
She's funny.
And the thing is, she's not not me. But she also isn't me. See, there's me, the real me, the one sitting makeupless in a darkroom, wearing a baggy t-shirt and a ridiculous flop of a braid, the one half-typing, half-playing Kim Kardashian Hollywood (which, by the way, is an image I would never let the internet see)... and then there's the Instagram version of me. I suppose all of my social media personas are diversions from my real identity... but Instagram (and I guess Facebook) are the furthest from the truth. On Twitter, I'll occassionally slip into mope-mode or honest frustrations. On Tumblr, I'll post my angst-ridden honest poetry. But on Instagram and Facebook, I think I subconsciously (or maybe sometimes consciously) tailor my posts to portray an image of myself that is a little more idealized.
I mean... an idealized version of 24-year-old-still-a-borderline-train-wreck-mess... but an idealized version nonetheless.
See, I, the real I, have been going through a hard time lately. A really hard time. A cried this morning during church hard time. (I did. We were singing this song which is essentially just Micah 6:8 "He has shown you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you, but do do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God." And then I cried.) But do you know who hasn't been having a hard time lately? This girl:
She, rather than having a hard time, has been hanging out with her cat, trying fish for the first time in about a decade, and pretty much constantly drawing. She's been happy, whereas I've been struggling. And it's like... we do technically do all the same things. But she's absolved from the stress, the anxiety, the constant pressure of existence.
But I realized, too, that the version of myself I've created through instagram is just that, snippets of me. It's not really like I'm pretending to be someone else. It's just that I've cut away the bad bits and left the rest for my followers and facebook friends to see. I cropped away all the ugly, stressful, and difficult. I show just the pretty bits:
She's happier. She has more adventures--and the adventures she has she views as adventures and not as hassles. She's more observant. She finds something to laugh about everywhere she looks. Everything, to her, is interesting or beautiful or entertaining. She always has somebody to hang out with or something to create. She's always polished. Even when she's goofing off, she's at least posed enough to be somewhat poised.
She's all the best bits of me.
She's creative.
She's friendly.
She's adventurous.
She's funny.
She's close with her family.
I mean... an idealized version of 24-year-old-still-a-borderline-train-wreck-mess... but an idealized version nonetheless.
See, I, the real I, have been going through a hard time lately. A really hard time. A cried this morning during church hard time. (I did. We were singing this song which is essentially just Micah 6:8 "He has shown you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you, but do do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God." And then I cried.) But do you know who hasn't been having a hard time lately? This girl:
She, rather than having a hard time, has been hanging out with her cat, trying fish for the first time in about a decade, and pretty much constantly drawing. She's been happy, whereas I've been struggling. And it's like... we do technically do all the same things. But she's absolved from the stress, the anxiety, the constant pressure of existence.
But I realized, too, that the version of myself I've created through instagram is just that, snippets of me. It's not really like I'm pretending to be someone else. It's just that I've cut away the bad bits and left the rest for my followers and facebook friends to see. I cropped away all the ugly, stressful, and difficult. I show just the pretty bits:
It's not that I think it's necessarily a bad thing. Maybe for a split second as I'm editing and presenting the version of myself I want you all to see, I genuinely embody that version of myself. The adventurous, creative, friendly, excited, interested version of myself. I also like to try and be some sort of entertainment source, and I think if I just embraced the bummer bug whenever it bit on my social media, I might just be spreading bad moods.
But, I think what kind of freaked me out when I realized that this girl--the one on my Instagram--wasn't me was that at times like these, when I--the real I--am going through an incredibly difficult time, I--this other I--is the one who is connecting with my friends and family. Which means I--the real I--feel a little bit disconnected, like I'm slightly out of reach of support. And it's a predicament I've put myself in by fabricating this version of myself in the first place.
I'm still going to do it, though. I like looking through my Instagram from time to time and feeling like I'm the girl in the pictures. The one who notices the light throughout the world and strives to make other people smile. I like her. I'd like to get to be her a little more often.
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
The Abandoned Maxi-Pad Wrapper On Bus 132
To serve as a warning of sorts, let me say: the title is neither ironic nor facetious. This post is, in fact, about the abandoned wrapper of a maxi-pad. So, while it is not at all about menstruation, it is about something which once covered a piece of menstruation paraphernalia. So, anyway, if you just don't want to read about periods, you're fine to keep reading. But, if my use of the word "menstruation" twice in the sentence above makes you uncomfortable (because of the word, not because of some nit-picky editorial tic regarding repetition) then please don't continue. You're comfort is very important to me! I mean, it's not "very" important to me, but I care. A bit. Anyway, here we go:
It's not a maxi-pad. It's just the wrapper.l Peach. Vinyl. Folded up into itself. Kotex, I'd guess.
The bus starts moving the moment I retrieve my day pass from the fare machine. I clumsily fall into the second seat along the driver's side of the vehicle, and there it is, sitting in the seat directly across from me.
For awhile, until seats in the back open up, I continue riding right across from it. I watch each stop as passengers get on and off the bus, pretending it isn't there. An older man in a KCFD polo wearing glasses with wide, brown plastic frames, sits a seat away. At one point, a younger man with chin length, blondish brownish hair and a purple umbrella he carried like a walking stick, sat directly to its right. For a few stops, a third man sat by it, pretending to read Steinbeck but really just watching out the window. Nobody paid any attention to the folded up bit of pale, orange plastic.
Except me. I was predictably intrigued. This was the most fascinating piece of feminine hygiene product debris I had ever seen. How did it get there? Did it slip out of a woman's pocket? Had she cleaned out her purse and decided to leave it behind? In either situation, why had she kept an empty maxi-pad wrapper instead of disposing of it in a bathroom trash can?
Perhaps she happened across some absurd situation while riding the metro and craftily used the maxi-pad to solve a problem. If so: where was it now? In a shoe serving as a make-shift sole? Taped tightly around the gash on someone's left forearm? Clenched in a toddler's hands with a sharpie-drawn face and body, acting as a doll to temporarily replace the one that remained, sad and abandoned, at the bus stop? Disposed of in a public trash can, drenched in the forehead sweat of an over-heated city dweller?
Or perhaps a frequent rider of the bus system feels unnaturally possessive of the second seat on the right side of the bus and leaves discarded feminine hygiene wrappers on the seat as she exits, hoping to discourage other patrons from claiming the spot. If so, it works. I watch, stop after stop, passengers getting on the ever-filling bus. Each one walks past the seat as though it isn't there. They opt, instead, to sit with strangers, to stand near the back doors gripping onto a pole, to smush themselves in between the man muttering angrily out of the window and the teenager reeking of pot.
I wonder where it's going. It's on a brief furlough from bathroom drawers, the bottoms of handbags, and waste bins. How many routes can it ride before it gets tossed to the floor and trampled out or swept into a garbage bag? In the end, who will dispose of it? And is it enjoying it's tour of the city?
A disembodied voice announces the street names of an upcoming intersection. I look up and yank on the yellow cord that's stretched along the length of the bus. The driver pulls to a stop. The doors open. I exit. And as the bus, and the abandoned maxi-pad wrapper, move further into the distance, my curiosity dissipates.
It's not a maxi-pad. It's just the wrapper.l Peach. Vinyl. Folded up into itself. Kotex, I'd guess.
The bus starts moving the moment I retrieve my day pass from the fare machine. I clumsily fall into the second seat along the driver's side of the vehicle, and there it is, sitting in the seat directly across from me.
For awhile, until seats in the back open up, I continue riding right across from it. I watch each stop as passengers get on and off the bus, pretending it isn't there. An older man in a KCFD polo wearing glasses with wide, brown plastic frames, sits a seat away. At one point, a younger man with chin length, blondish brownish hair and a purple umbrella he carried like a walking stick, sat directly to its right. For a few stops, a third man sat by it, pretending to read Steinbeck but really just watching out the window. Nobody paid any attention to the folded up bit of pale, orange plastic.
Except me. I was predictably intrigued. This was the most fascinating piece of feminine hygiene product debris I had ever seen. How did it get there? Did it slip out of a woman's pocket? Had she cleaned out her purse and decided to leave it behind? In either situation, why had she kept an empty maxi-pad wrapper instead of disposing of it in a bathroom trash can?
Perhaps she happened across some absurd situation while riding the metro and craftily used the maxi-pad to solve a problem. If so: where was it now? In a shoe serving as a make-shift sole? Taped tightly around the gash on someone's left forearm? Clenched in a toddler's hands with a sharpie-drawn face and body, acting as a doll to temporarily replace the one that remained, sad and abandoned, at the bus stop? Disposed of in a public trash can, drenched in the forehead sweat of an over-heated city dweller?
Or perhaps a frequent rider of the bus system feels unnaturally possessive of the second seat on the right side of the bus and leaves discarded feminine hygiene wrappers on the seat as she exits, hoping to discourage other patrons from claiming the spot. If so, it works. I watch, stop after stop, passengers getting on the ever-filling bus. Each one walks past the seat as though it isn't there. They opt, instead, to sit with strangers, to stand near the back doors gripping onto a pole, to smush themselves in between the man muttering angrily out of the window and the teenager reeking of pot.
I wonder where it's going. It's on a brief furlough from bathroom drawers, the bottoms of handbags, and waste bins. How many routes can it ride before it gets tossed to the floor and trampled out or swept into a garbage bag? In the end, who will dispose of it? And is it enjoying it's tour of the city?
A disembodied voice announces the street names of an upcoming intersection. I look up and yank on the yellow cord that's stretched along the length of the bus. The driver pulls to a stop. The doors open. I exit. And as the bus, and the abandoned maxi-pad wrapper, move further into the distance, my curiosity dissipates.
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Public Transportastor: Disaster on the City Bus
Really, this whole mess started way back when Renee was still here. You know Renee? My best friend/love of my life? Cute, funny, energetic? Befriends everyone? Australian? You probably know Renee. When Renee was here, she rode the bus all the time. Which is why, really, all of this is her fault. Back when she was still here, we talked about having a "bus adventure" where we ditched my car and public-transported it all day and to various locations. She was well versed in the bus! She could have taught me her ways! But, unfortunately, we never got around to it. She went back to Australia, and I just kept driving everywhere.
Until Wednesday night when the fire department showed up at my door. I work two jobs. In the mornings, I work at an insurance office. And then, on several evenings, I work at the library. The insurance office is about 25 minutes away from my house when driving; the library is about 25 minutes from my house when walking. So, Wednesday morning I drove to the insurance office, worked, and then returned to my apartment. I had about two-ish hours to kill before I needed to leave for the library. I watched Tuesday night's Pretty Little Liars. I made myself dinner. I touched up my makeup. When I had about fifteen minutes before I was planning on heading out, I was scrolling through tumblr, and my roommate knocked on my door.
"Um, Kat? The Kansas City Fire Department is at the door for you? Something about your car?" He said, kind of quietly and with a hint of confusion in his voice.
"What? Why?" I asked him. He kind of shrugged as we walked to our front door. The night before, a KCFD ambulance and a hoard of police officers were sent to the library because of an altercation in the parking lot. I was trying to fit that into my understanding of what was happening when I opened the door to a tall, black, thirty-plus year old fireman whose forehead was glistening with the sort of sweat that comes from layering up in fire protective gear, driving around in 100-degree weather, and then getting up-close-and-personal with some flames.
He explained to me that my engine caught on fire. He said it was probably electrical because it started just above the battery. He asked what year my car was (2000) and told me that, because it was older than ten, he didn't have to call the fire inspector.
I called my dad and cried. The engine was gone. Gone-gone. There was a gross burn-blemish on the hood of my beautiful, beautiful car. I don't have the money for car repairs. I don't have the money for buying a new car. I don't have the money for buying an old car. I cried so much on the phone that my dad had to say, "I can't understand you. Do you just want to call me back when you calm down?"
"No. I'm calm." I told him, firmly, quickly flipping off my hysteria.
I called into the library. "Hey, so, my engine caught on fire." "Oh my gosh!" "I think I'm the only page on duty today, so, if you need me to come in, I can have my roommate drive me, but..." "No, that's fine, take care of whatever you need to take care of."
My dad came over. He looked at the car. We decided she was a goner. It was sad.
That night, I looked up the bus route and wrote down instructions of how to get to the insurance office the next morning, and how to get back.
Thursday, at way-too-early, I woke up, got ready, and walked to the bus stop. I spent the fifty minute bus ride worrying. Am I sitting in the right place? What do I do when I need to get off? What if I'm so distracted worrying that I miss my stop and... and then we were at my first stop. At this point, I was supposed to get on another bus, but I couldn't quite figure out where the other bus was supposed to pick me up. So I just walked the rest of the way to work. I got there just barely on time and sweaty but I got there.
The ride home was a little bit better. I found my first stop. I found my second stop. I got on and off the right buses and at the right time. On Friday, I made my first mistake by assuming that I had figured out what I was doing this time around. I made my second mistake by finding the right bus stop during the bus transfer and feeling like I was in the clear. I made my third mistake by totally missing my stop, and then another by not realizing I had missed my stop, and then another by realizing I had missed by stop but hoping that they would loop back around somewhere near where I could get to work.
Eventually, I texted my father. Frantically. "I MISSED MY STOP! I DON'T KNOW WHERE WE ARE!!!!!!" And he looked up the route online and said, "I think at the 31st transit the bus will be looping back around." I looked at a map. That seemed right-ish. I called into work, "Hey, I've been having vehicular issues and am on the bus but missed my stop and so I'm going to have to ride the route through, I'm going to be late, but probably not too late because I think the route's about to turn back that direction."
I was attentive this time. But before I knew it, we were deep into the city. I texted my father again: "Here's where we are, did I somehow miss the stop again?" He texted me back, "That's not on the route you gave me?" That's when I realized: there were two maps. At the transit, the bus didn't turn back on the route. It became an entirely new route.
Luckily, sitting right next to me were guys in their mid-twenties. Both were lean and dapper. One wore slacks, a tie, a pair of glasses. The other had a large backpack, long hair pulled up, two curls that fell down and framed his face. Glasses was telling Backpack about the bus line we were on--where the bus was going, where Backpack should get off to catch his bus to Dallas, where he worked, how often he rode the bus, that sort of thing. Backpack stood, they bid one another farewell, and then Backpack got off the bus and headed towards Dallas. Presumably. So I turned to Glasses.
"Hey, you seem to know a lot about this route."
"Yeah."
"Okay, maybe you can help me. Right now this is route 12?"
"Yeah."
"When I got on it was route 35. Will it become route 35 again?"
"Yeah, I know this bus does turn to 35 at some point."
"Do you know when?"
"I've never ridden it that far." He looks at the brochures I'm holding and adds, "It looks like the 31st transit."
"Okay, thanks."
The bus pulled to a stop. Glasses got off. I texted my father and explained the situation. At some point, I meandered up to the bus driver and asked when the bus would become 35 again. He repeated, "The 31st transit." I asked how far that was. He said it would be soon.
I called into work. I was going to be much later than I had anticipated when I called the first time. And, since I had to leave at 12:30 on the dot for my cousin's wedding, I wasn't sure if they wanted me to come in at all. My supervisor said it was fine. Since she was also incredibly nice about it, I relaxed immediately.
My dad said he would pick me up at the stop that I boarded from. So, I was just going to ride it out. All the way through. It would be another hour or so, and I thought the biggest issue was the fact that I'd been on that bus for an hour and half at that point, and I'd needed to pee since boarding.
Little. Did. I. Know.
Public transportation is filled with interesting characters. But, for the bulk of my ride, those interesting characters were like, a jovial painter carrying a bucket full of supplies and a charismatic waiter, the pair of whom spent thirty minutes talking about Miami. Or an older woman with short gray hair and fuchsia lipstick and a wide-eyed man in gray sweat pants, the pair of whom spent fifteen minutes talking about the certifiably-crazy people they regularly saw on the bus. Or an eight year old girl carrying a half-full half-gallon of Vitamin D milk. I felt like most of the "interesting characters" I saw on the bus were the sort of characters you would find in a quirky independent film or stage comedy.
But on the last stage of my journey, I encountered the frightening type of interesting characters you can find on the bus. The first was an older man, scruffy, with dirty pants, who was carrying a blanket a flip phone. From the time route 12 turned back to route 35 until the very last stop before the bus driver's break/layover, this guy sat in front of me and stared, unapologetically, at my kneecaps, then my chest, then my face, then away like he hadn't been staring at me at all. Then again, at my kneecaps, then my chest, then my face, then away. Kneecaps, chest, face, away, kneecaps, chest, face, away. It was unsettling. To give him the benefit of the doubt, it's possible that he was staring at me without any ill-intent. Like, he wasn't staring at me, but that he was just staring in general. But still, I was deeply, deeply uncomfortable. So when the bus driver stopped at the last stop, and the man got off the bus, I stayed on. During his layover/break, the bus driver kindly let me off the bus, despite the fact that it wasn't technically a bus stop.
I also got threatened. On the bus. My second day taking the bus. It was a woman in her late 20's or early 30's. Earlier during the trip, she ranted at a man about the headphones he was listening to. That, in conjunction with her threat to me, made me think that she just perceived the world as harsher and more judgmental than it is. While she got off the bus, she walked up and down the aisle a couple of times, mumbling at me. "Huh?" I asked, quietly. She kept mumbling, but I heard two of her sentences clearly. The were: "I'm going to remember your face. Next time I see you, I'm going to f--k up your face." She repeated it a few times. "I'm going to remember your face. Next time I see you, I'm going to f--k up your face. I'm going to remember your face." She literally did the thing where she pointed her pointer finger and middle finger at her eyes and then at mine a few times.
I didn't respond. I wasn't really scared because it was the middle of the day and we were on a crowded bus. I kind of looked around. There was a girl sitting catty-corner from me who made eye contact with me briefly. Her brows were pulled together and her lips pulled together. Her expression matched my own. I could hear almost hear her thoughts echoing in my mind: "What the heck is this girl going on about?" Then, catty-corner girl looked away. Maybe she thought if the other girl caught her, confusion-sympathizing with me, she would remember both our faces and then the next time she saw us she would f--k up both our faces. I looked at my kneecaps.
I could still here the other girl, stepping off the bus, saying, "I'm going to remember your face" and mumbling.
The whole thing ended at not-a-real-bus-stop. I chatted with the bus driver briefly, and he let me off of the bus, and I thanked him sincerely. Then, I walked over to the bus stop where I was supposed to meet my father. He wasn't there. I texted him frantically, "At the plaza. Are you here? I have to pee! Running into Zoe's Kitchen!" I didn't run into Zoe's Kitchen. They were closed. "Never mind. Closed. Looking for a bathroom!" I started to jog down one road, but I saw the man who spent the bulk of the bus ride staring at me, so I jogged back the other way. I kept looking. "Barnes & Noble! I'm going to Barnes & Noble! Let me know when you're here!"
When I came out of the bathroom, and walked back downstairs, my father was there. And since he was there, it was all over. The whole terrible affair. The three hours on the bus, the old man's stares, the woman's threats. It's almost magic: the way bad things don't feel bad once everything is okay again.
But, that having been said, from now on, I'm going to get off at the right stop. I just don't want to chance running into that girl again. I mean, what if she does remember my face!?
Until Wednesday night when the fire department showed up at my door. I work two jobs. In the mornings, I work at an insurance office. And then, on several evenings, I work at the library. The insurance office is about 25 minutes away from my house when driving; the library is about 25 minutes from my house when walking. So, Wednesday morning I drove to the insurance office, worked, and then returned to my apartment. I had about two-ish hours to kill before I needed to leave for the library. I watched Tuesday night's Pretty Little Liars. I made myself dinner. I touched up my makeup. When I had about fifteen minutes before I was planning on heading out, I was scrolling through tumblr, and my roommate knocked on my door.
"Um, Kat? The Kansas City Fire Department is at the door for you? Something about your car?" He said, kind of quietly and with a hint of confusion in his voice.
"What? Why?" I asked him. He kind of shrugged as we walked to our front door. The night before, a KCFD ambulance and a hoard of police officers were sent to the library because of an altercation in the parking lot. I was trying to fit that into my understanding of what was happening when I opened the door to a tall, black, thirty-plus year old fireman whose forehead was glistening with the sort of sweat that comes from layering up in fire protective gear, driving around in 100-degree weather, and then getting up-close-and-personal with some flames.
He explained to me that my engine caught on fire. He said it was probably electrical because it started just above the battery. He asked what year my car was (2000) and told me that, because it was older than ten, he didn't have to call the fire inspector.
I called my dad and cried. The engine was gone. Gone-gone. There was a gross burn-blemish on the hood of my beautiful, beautiful car. I don't have the money for car repairs. I don't have the money for buying a new car. I don't have the money for buying an old car. I cried so much on the phone that my dad had to say, "I can't understand you. Do you just want to call me back when you calm down?"
"No. I'm calm." I told him, firmly, quickly flipping off my hysteria.
I called into the library. "Hey, so, my engine caught on fire." "Oh my gosh!" "I think I'm the only page on duty today, so, if you need me to come in, I can have my roommate drive me, but..." "No, that's fine, take care of whatever you need to take care of."
My dad came over. He looked at the car. We decided she was a goner. It was sad.
That night, I looked up the bus route and wrote down instructions of how to get to the insurance office the next morning, and how to get back.
Thursday, at way-too-early, I woke up, got ready, and walked to the bus stop. I spent the fifty minute bus ride worrying. Am I sitting in the right place? What do I do when I need to get off? What if I'm so distracted worrying that I miss my stop and... and then we were at my first stop. At this point, I was supposed to get on another bus, but I couldn't quite figure out where the other bus was supposed to pick me up. So I just walked the rest of the way to work. I got there just barely on time and sweaty but I got there.
The ride home was a little bit better. I found my first stop. I found my second stop. I got on and off the right buses and at the right time. On Friday, I made my first mistake by assuming that I had figured out what I was doing this time around. I made my second mistake by finding the right bus stop during the bus transfer and feeling like I was in the clear. I made my third mistake by totally missing my stop, and then another by not realizing I had missed my stop, and then another by realizing I had missed by stop but hoping that they would loop back around somewhere near where I could get to work.
Eventually, I texted my father. Frantically. "I MISSED MY STOP! I DON'T KNOW WHERE WE ARE!!!!!!" And he looked up the route online and said, "I think at the 31st transit the bus will be looping back around." I looked at a map. That seemed right-ish. I called into work, "Hey, I've been having vehicular issues and am on the bus but missed my stop and so I'm going to have to ride the route through, I'm going to be late, but probably not too late because I think the route's about to turn back that direction."
I was attentive this time. But before I knew it, we were deep into the city. I texted my father again: "Here's where we are, did I somehow miss the stop again?" He texted me back, "That's not on the route you gave me?" That's when I realized: there were two maps. At the transit, the bus didn't turn back on the route. It became an entirely new route.
Luckily, sitting right next to me were guys in their mid-twenties. Both were lean and dapper. One wore slacks, a tie, a pair of glasses. The other had a large backpack, long hair pulled up, two curls that fell down and framed his face. Glasses was telling Backpack about the bus line we were on--where the bus was going, where Backpack should get off to catch his bus to Dallas, where he worked, how often he rode the bus, that sort of thing. Backpack stood, they bid one another farewell, and then Backpack got off the bus and headed towards Dallas. Presumably. So I turned to Glasses.
"Hey, you seem to know a lot about this route."
"Yeah."
"Okay, maybe you can help me. Right now this is route 12?"
"Yeah."
"When I got on it was route 35. Will it become route 35 again?"
"Yeah, I know this bus does turn to 35 at some point."
"Do you know when?"
"I've never ridden it that far." He looks at the brochures I'm holding and adds, "It looks like the 31st transit."
"Okay, thanks."
The bus pulled to a stop. Glasses got off. I texted my father and explained the situation. At some point, I meandered up to the bus driver and asked when the bus would become 35 again. He repeated, "The 31st transit." I asked how far that was. He said it would be soon.
I called into work. I was going to be much later than I had anticipated when I called the first time. And, since I had to leave at 12:30 on the dot for my cousin's wedding, I wasn't sure if they wanted me to come in at all. My supervisor said it was fine. Since she was also incredibly nice about it, I relaxed immediately.
My dad said he would pick me up at the stop that I boarded from. So, I was just going to ride it out. All the way through. It would be another hour or so, and I thought the biggest issue was the fact that I'd been on that bus for an hour and half at that point, and I'd needed to pee since boarding.
Little. Did. I. Know.
Public transportation is filled with interesting characters. But, for the bulk of my ride, those interesting characters were like, a jovial painter carrying a bucket full of supplies and a charismatic waiter, the pair of whom spent thirty minutes talking about Miami. Or an older woman with short gray hair and fuchsia lipstick and a wide-eyed man in gray sweat pants, the pair of whom spent fifteen minutes talking about the certifiably-crazy people they regularly saw on the bus. Or an eight year old girl carrying a half-full half-gallon of Vitamin D milk. I felt like most of the "interesting characters" I saw on the bus were the sort of characters you would find in a quirky independent film or stage comedy.
But on the last stage of my journey, I encountered the frightening type of interesting characters you can find on the bus. The first was an older man, scruffy, with dirty pants, who was carrying a blanket a flip phone. From the time route 12 turned back to route 35 until the very last stop before the bus driver's break/layover, this guy sat in front of me and stared, unapologetically, at my kneecaps, then my chest, then my face, then away like he hadn't been staring at me at all. Then again, at my kneecaps, then my chest, then my face, then away. Kneecaps, chest, face, away, kneecaps, chest, face, away. It was unsettling. To give him the benefit of the doubt, it's possible that he was staring at me without any ill-intent. Like, he wasn't staring at me, but that he was just staring in general. But still, I was deeply, deeply uncomfortable. So when the bus driver stopped at the last stop, and the man got off the bus, I stayed on. During his layover/break, the bus driver kindly let me off the bus, despite the fact that it wasn't technically a bus stop.
I also got threatened. On the bus. My second day taking the bus. It was a woman in her late 20's or early 30's. Earlier during the trip, she ranted at a man about the headphones he was listening to. That, in conjunction with her threat to me, made me think that she just perceived the world as harsher and more judgmental than it is. While she got off the bus, she walked up and down the aisle a couple of times, mumbling at me. "Huh?" I asked, quietly. She kept mumbling, but I heard two of her sentences clearly. The were: "I'm going to remember your face. Next time I see you, I'm going to f--k up your face." She repeated it a few times. "I'm going to remember your face. Next time I see you, I'm going to f--k up your face. I'm going to remember your face." She literally did the thing where she pointed her pointer finger and middle finger at her eyes and then at mine a few times.
I didn't respond. I wasn't really scared because it was the middle of the day and we were on a crowded bus. I kind of looked around. There was a girl sitting catty-corner from me who made eye contact with me briefly. Her brows were pulled together and her lips pulled together. Her expression matched my own. I could hear almost hear her thoughts echoing in my mind: "What the heck is this girl going on about?" Then, catty-corner girl looked away. Maybe she thought if the other girl caught her, confusion-sympathizing with me, she would remember both our faces and then the next time she saw us she would f--k up both our faces. I looked at my kneecaps.
I could still here the other girl, stepping off the bus, saying, "I'm going to remember your face" and mumbling.
The whole thing ended at not-a-real-bus-stop. I chatted with the bus driver briefly, and he let me off of the bus, and I thanked him sincerely. Then, I walked over to the bus stop where I was supposed to meet my father. He wasn't there. I texted him frantically, "At the plaza. Are you here? I have to pee! Running into Zoe's Kitchen!" I didn't run into Zoe's Kitchen. They were closed. "Never mind. Closed. Looking for a bathroom!" I started to jog down one road, but I saw the man who spent the bulk of the bus ride staring at me, so I jogged back the other way. I kept looking. "Barnes & Noble! I'm going to Barnes & Noble! Let me know when you're here!"
When I came out of the bathroom, and walked back downstairs, my father was there. And since he was there, it was all over. The whole terrible affair. The three hours on the bus, the old man's stares, the woman's threats. It's almost magic: the way bad things don't feel bad once everything is okay again.
But, that having been said, from now on, I'm going to get off at the right stop. I just don't want to chance running into that girl again. I mean, what if she does remember my face!?
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Everywhere
He saw her from across the way. (That's what I heard, at least, and I didn't really get any more details than that so if you're wondering, "What the heck is a 'way'?" I'm sorry, I can't help you.)
He fell in love instantly. Well, not really, because that would be impossible. I mean, she could be a racist or an idiot or a republican or something. There was really no way of telling from all the way across the way. But he says that he fell in love instantly for a couple of reasons. Like, she didn't look like a racist or an idiot or a republican. Also she was really pretty.
She was really pretty, too. I mean, at least she was in her profile picture on Facebook. Technically I never saw her in person.
She had really, really long and really, really dark hair. It was thick and slightly wavy and not at all frizzy. Like she stepped straight out of a shampoo commercial or something. People were always saying to her, "Your hair is, like, really, really pretty. What kind of shampoo do you use?" As though they could just go out and buy that same shampoo and then have really, really nice pretty hair, too, which just, frankly isn't true. People with good hair have good hair. The rest of us just try as hard as we can but then usually wind up with subpar messes.
Anyway, she also had extra ordinary blue eyes. No. That's not a typo. I do not mean extraordinary, I mean extra ordinary. Like, way more ordinary than normal. In fact, the blue of her eyes was so ordinary that it was, in fact, a little extraordinary because ordinary things aren't ordinarily that, well, ordinary.
She had this kind of ethnic ambiguity thing going on where she definitely had all of the privileges of being caucasian but, like, she might get cast in a Marvel movie to give their cast a little more "diversity" but then she'd probably also get killed off before the next movie came out. Maybe she wouldn't get killed off, necessarily but she definitely wouldn't get a cameo in the next Thor or Iron Man or whatever.
Also, she had that kind of easy yet fashionable style guys really, really go for. Like, that day she was wearing this short, cotton, blue dress with little violet flowers printed all over it and a peterpan collar, And she wore a pair of white Keds, brown eyeliner and mascara, and her hair in a slightly messy fishtail braid. You know what I mean, right? Like, it's that kind of look that says "I just look like this all the time and, yeah, I'm really pretty but I'm not really concerned with being pretty."
I never met her. So, maybe she really wasn't concerned with being pretty. But I kind of think pretty much everyone is concerned with being pretty. Even Anne Hathaway in the beginning of Devil Wears Prada or Princess Diaries or any other movies where she gets a makeover mid-film.
So, anyway, he sees her across "the way" and thinks, "Wow that girl is really pretty. I like, love her." And even though he probably didn't really love her, he did think he really loved her. So, he went after her. Only she was kind of in a rush and hurried off to get somewhere else and before he knew it he was looking around thinking, "Dang it, I like love that girl and I have no clue where she went!"
So he tried posting it as a Missed Connection but she didn't ever respond. And after two weeks or so, he went straight up bonkers.
He's really rich. I think maybe if he was broke he'd've been a little more down to earth and wouldn't have gone crazy, you know? But he wasn't broke. He was rich. And insane. So he hired, like, a lot of people to search for this girl and they looked everywhere for her. And he kept hiring people and having them search for her up until the moment that he died. (Which was only, like, three months later because this mental break was pretty serious and he stopped eating or bathing or watching where he was going while crossing streets.)
His last words were, "I don't get it, we looked everywhere for her."
And that was true, too. They had looked everywhere. But they hadn't looked every when and that's what was their downfall, really. Because she was everywhere that they looked, but she wasn't ever any of those places when they were looking there. You see the problem, right? She was, like, in the grocery store when they were at the theater, and then she was at the theater when they were at the grocery store. Yeah, like, that's the idea but on a much larger scale because seriously everywhere, you know?
Anyway, it's sad for him because he died, but she didn't have such a bad life, really. She became a kindergarten teacher and studied botany "just for fun" and one time won a pie eating contest which was really a double-win because she got eat a bunch of pie and she got a trophy and $200.00 cash prize for it. She never knew about the really rich guy who saw her that one time and then went crazy and died when she didn't respond to his missed connection. I think that's for the best, too, because she had a really good life and that might have been a real buzz kill, you know?
He fell in love instantly. Well, not really, because that would be impossible. I mean, she could be a racist or an idiot or a republican or something. There was really no way of telling from all the way across the way. But he says that he fell in love instantly for a couple of reasons. Like, she didn't look like a racist or an idiot or a republican. Also she was really pretty.
She was really pretty, too. I mean, at least she was in her profile picture on Facebook. Technically I never saw her in person.
She had really, really long and really, really dark hair. It was thick and slightly wavy and not at all frizzy. Like she stepped straight out of a shampoo commercial or something. People were always saying to her, "Your hair is, like, really, really pretty. What kind of shampoo do you use?" As though they could just go out and buy that same shampoo and then have really, really nice pretty hair, too, which just, frankly isn't true. People with good hair have good hair. The rest of us just try as hard as we can but then usually wind up with subpar messes.
Anyway, she also had extra ordinary blue eyes. No. That's not a typo. I do not mean extraordinary, I mean extra ordinary. Like, way more ordinary than normal. In fact, the blue of her eyes was so ordinary that it was, in fact, a little extraordinary because ordinary things aren't ordinarily that, well, ordinary.
She had this kind of ethnic ambiguity thing going on where she definitely had all of the privileges of being caucasian but, like, she might get cast in a Marvel movie to give their cast a little more "diversity" but then she'd probably also get killed off before the next movie came out. Maybe she wouldn't get killed off, necessarily but she definitely wouldn't get a cameo in the next Thor or Iron Man or whatever.
Also, she had that kind of easy yet fashionable style guys really, really go for. Like, that day she was wearing this short, cotton, blue dress with little violet flowers printed all over it and a peterpan collar, And she wore a pair of white Keds, brown eyeliner and mascara, and her hair in a slightly messy fishtail braid. You know what I mean, right? Like, it's that kind of look that says "I just look like this all the time and, yeah, I'm really pretty but I'm not really concerned with being pretty."
I never met her. So, maybe she really wasn't concerned with being pretty. But I kind of think pretty much everyone is concerned with being pretty. Even Anne Hathaway in the beginning of Devil Wears Prada or Princess Diaries or any other movies where she gets a makeover mid-film.
So, anyway, he sees her across "the way" and thinks, "Wow that girl is really pretty. I like, love her." And even though he probably didn't really love her, he did think he really loved her. So, he went after her. Only she was kind of in a rush and hurried off to get somewhere else and before he knew it he was looking around thinking, "Dang it, I like love that girl and I have no clue where she went!"
So he tried posting it as a Missed Connection but she didn't ever respond. And after two weeks or so, he went straight up bonkers.
He's really rich. I think maybe if he was broke he'd've been a little more down to earth and wouldn't have gone crazy, you know? But he wasn't broke. He was rich. And insane. So he hired, like, a lot of people to search for this girl and they looked everywhere for her. And he kept hiring people and having them search for her up until the moment that he died. (Which was only, like, three months later because this mental break was pretty serious and he stopped eating or bathing or watching where he was going while crossing streets.)
His last words were, "I don't get it, we looked everywhere for her."
And that was true, too. They had looked everywhere. But they hadn't looked every when and that's what was their downfall, really. Because she was everywhere that they looked, but she wasn't ever any of those places when they were looking there. You see the problem, right? She was, like, in the grocery store when they were at the theater, and then she was at the theater when they were at the grocery store. Yeah, like, that's the idea but on a much larger scale because seriously everywhere, you know?
Anyway, it's sad for him because he died, but she didn't have such a bad life, really. She became a kindergarten teacher and studied botany "just for fun" and one time won a pie eating contest which was really a double-win because she got eat a bunch of pie and she got a trophy and $200.00 cash prize for it. She never knew about the really rich guy who saw her that one time and then went crazy and died when she didn't respond to his missed connection. I think that's for the best, too, because she had a really good life and that might have been a real buzz kill, you know?
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