I have a pretty big problem with crowded buses. Mostly because humankind does not understand how to behave in a logical manner aboard these vessels and instead adheres to some bizarre personal code of bus ethics that does nothing to facilitate the journey but makes me want to pull their hair.
When I'm stuck standing; I'm most likely flailing about as the driver engages in a passionate love triangle between foot, gas pedal and break. I remember fondly when I flew into the laps of four unsuspecting passengers, having failed to correctly calculate the complicated physics equation necessary to accurately grip the handrail looming inches outside of my normal range of grasp. But I don't really mind the gymnastics compared to the other bozos on board. Even my fellow standees won't unite in stand-dom and REFUSE to move to the back of the bus. People do this thing where they shift in place, look at the ground and wear a hapless, confused expression, like, "oh...well... I..uh....no where for me to..huh...pphhh." There is huffing and eye rolling when the they are ordered to the back by the driver or another brave standee that understands my plight. I make it a point to catch this persons eye and send him a knowing look and waves of gratitude, "I know! These people! The back! It's so simple! We could all fit!" We are one, me and this guy. It helps of course that my breasts are occasionally thrust into his shoulder but this is not awkward, this is the price of battle.
The other people to hate when you're standing are of course, those who are sitting down. Very few have the decency to stare out the window and allow you your visually unappealing struggle in private. No, most enjoy watching your misery. "Look at you, you minion. You wretched, seatless creature. My fortune so far exceeds yours. It is delightful!" Little do they know that as soon as one of their compatriots disembarks, we of the seatless masses will join their ranks post haste.
Unless of course you belong to the infuriating few who will continue to stand after a seat is vacated. There is not an elderly person or pregnant woman in sight, yet these people stand stoically beside this seat, waving away those who bring it to their attention. They fancy themselves martyrs. "Observe me, you others of lesser stock. Watch as I so bravely buffet about and refuse the comfort of a seat! You are so weak! You are so attached to your luxuries! I will suffer, I will triumph!" Yeah. Sit the Ffffffffff down. Seriously. There are no medals here; no one is handing out certificates for bus bravery. See how it works is, if you sit down, you free up some space, thereby allowing others to shift and even out the entire standing to sitting ratio on the bus. Displacement, maybe it's called? Distribution of volume? I don't know but sit your smug ass in that seat and wipe that holier than thou look off of your face. You will not make me feel guilty for sitting. Instead I will burn you with my fiery stares and hope that a violent stop sends you hurtling to the floor. 'Kay?
The real crux of crowded bus riding comes when your only choice for a seat are the few in the front that must be relinquished to the elderly and disabled. Whenever such an individual boards the bus you can see your fellow front seat holders nervously glancing at each other, wondering who will get up first. If I don't, will I look insensitive? Evil? Will I earn the hateful glances and exaggerated sighs of other passengers who think this is what's wrong with America everyone is so lazy they cannot get up for an old person on the bus? It's quite apparent that the elderly are not often accommodated by fellow seated passengers, and I'm sure that as a pregnant lady if you're not in labor then you're out of luck. If I am in the first seat and I stand immediately upon seeing Nana, she's inviting me over for tea and gingersnaps out of gratitude. And then there is the situation where I find myself at the back end of the front section, sitting down but behind a fortress of people. Then the stress heightens--if I get up then this elderly woman will have to elbow her way through this crowd, with her grocery cart, past the guy with the huge gut, under the teen with the ipod and over the hipster with a shoulder bag, in order to take over my seat. And then, why do I have to be responsible? What about that a-hole sitting in the first seat? YOU GET UP and that way I don't need to have palpitations over my civic responsibilities.
So what's clear here is that my bus riding skills are much more highly evolved than the majority of other Washingtonians. And until we are jetpacking to work or beaming our molecules from spot to spot, I'm going to sit when I can, stand when I have to and if you see me reaching to grab a fistful of hair from some one's ignorant bus riding head, talk me down, please?
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
A Scent of Summer
Yesterday, I smelled the summer. Not in an overarching kind of way-- this scent was specific and could bare no other label. In the split second of an afternoon inhale I pinpointed it instantly: wet grass beneath the sprinkler's arch.
Remember that delicious smell? Before the era of the town pool when refreshment was a simple yard tool and a hose away? The water's scent becomes richer, prickles with the very minerals afloat within, and mingles with the sweetness of the grass. It's the cleanest, freshest scent that springs into your lungs and catches right in the middle of your chest, radiating a coolness and an earthy abundance.
Remember the feeling? Of that first run through the spray, your toes tickled by the newly damp blades of grass? You'd feel your hair getting soaked, clump by clump and constantly need to peel it off your cheeks as you tumbled over and over through the mist. Remember putting your mouth over one of the tiny holes in the sprinkler to take a drink and how the power of the stream would surprise you, leaving a little pinprick feeling in the back of your throat? Or how you'd put your fingers over several of the holes and pretend to play the piano, the concentrated stream so close to your fingertips making them feel pleasantly numb. There were some icky feelings too--the squelching of the ground as it turned to mud beneath your feet and the blades of grass that would stick to your legs and between your toes. Remember how during the height of day the water made the once fierce sun feel satisfyingly warm against your skin? But then as the day waned, you'd stand back from the water and goose bumps would graze your arms, which soon gave way to the shivers. These meant it was time to seek the warmth of your towel and the tiny terrycloth loops that nestled themselves on your skin and enveloped you in the perfect kind of summer warmth.
If you could hear the sounds again, wouldn't you? The little girl and little boy giggles, the click of the sprinkler as it continued its back and forth path, suggestions squealed to each other, "do a cartwheel through it!", "twist in the air!". There's a lightness in that summer afternoon soundtrack--somewhere in the background are your parents voices, cars passing lazily on the street, a grill top squeaking open.
You can see it too; I know you can. Maybe it's your front yard or your backyard, your neighbor's house or your grandmother's, but there is in some sprays of the sprinkler a rainbow set among the drops, brightly dusting you with its color. There is your little girl head, leaning over the streams and watching as your hair dances its own water ballet. You are in a tableau of summer--scampering about in a season whose very nature makes us freer.
It is a state of watery, warm, exuberant, and exhilarating perfection.
Remember that delicious smell? Before the era of the town pool when refreshment was a simple yard tool and a hose away? The water's scent becomes richer, prickles with the very minerals afloat within, and mingles with the sweetness of the grass. It's the cleanest, freshest scent that springs into your lungs and catches right in the middle of your chest, radiating a coolness and an earthy abundance.
Remember the feeling? Of that first run through the spray, your toes tickled by the newly damp blades of grass? You'd feel your hair getting soaked, clump by clump and constantly need to peel it off your cheeks as you tumbled over and over through the mist. Remember putting your mouth over one of the tiny holes in the sprinkler to take a drink and how the power of the stream would surprise you, leaving a little pinprick feeling in the back of your throat? Or how you'd put your fingers over several of the holes and pretend to play the piano, the concentrated stream so close to your fingertips making them feel pleasantly numb. There were some icky feelings too--the squelching of the ground as it turned to mud beneath your feet and the blades of grass that would stick to your legs and between your toes. Remember how during the height of day the water made the once fierce sun feel satisfyingly warm against your skin? But then as the day waned, you'd stand back from the water and goose bumps would graze your arms, which soon gave way to the shivers. These meant it was time to seek the warmth of your towel and the tiny terrycloth loops that nestled themselves on your skin and enveloped you in the perfect kind of summer warmth.
If you could hear the sounds again, wouldn't you? The little girl and little boy giggles, the click of the sprinkler as it continued its back and forth path, suggestions squealed to each other, "do a cartwheel through it!", "twist in the air!". There's a lightness in that summer afternoon soundtrack--somewhere in the background are your parents voices, cars passing lazily on the street, a grill top squeaking open.
You can see it too; I know you can. Maybe it's your front yard or your backyard, your neighbor's house or your grandmother's, but there is in some sprays of the sprinkler a rainbow set among the drops, brightly dusting you with its color. There is your little girl head, leaning over the streams and watching as your hair dances its own water ballet. You are in a tableau of summer--scampering about in a season whose very nature makes us freer.
It is a state of watery, warm, exuberant, and exhilarating perfection.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
We want a single, just a little single...
Last Friday evening I found myself with twenty minutes to spare before I had to report backstage for my performance. It was a perfect spring night--warmth still emitting from the setting sun and that sweet, lazy smell of the air ripe with growth and the onset of summer. This outdoor ambiance is probably what drew me to the softball fields behind the community center, where I happily took a seat on the stands to watch a few innings of the local girls softball game.
I would guess that the girls were around eight or nine years old, judging from their stature and the typical fielding errors that plagued the defense. A throw from the shortstop gets by the first basemen, an easy out at third goes unmade as the base is left uncovered, a soft fly ball taps a glove but ends with that disappointing plop into the sand. I felt the infield's pain as the base runners crept steadily by, but knew that once that third out was achieved, their errors would be mirrored by the opposing side and they would have their turn to trot the diamond. I had, after all, been there when I was their age and discovering my love for this sport. Watching them brought me swiftly back to my days on the field--the triumphs, the frustrations, the camaraderie, and the intangible contentment achieved from the most spectacular to the simplest moments during those nine innings.
If I try to pinpoint my earliest interaction with any softball paraphernalia, it would be watching my dad oil his mitt, place a ball inside, secure it with a rubber band, and store it in the dark recesses of our closet in order to successfully achieve the perfect "pocket." I loved the smell of the oil and the idea that in a few months the glove would emerge as an ideal specimen, ready for duty. I suppose I began actively playing the sport in our backyard, perched over our designated home plate armed with the big red wiffle bat. From there I graduated to t-ball and then around first or second grade to the "big leagues" when all the crutches were removed and we were on our own. But, I always had my dad by my side. From the first organized team I joined, he was my coach, faithfully heading up the team of girls and leading them as they found their way around the skills required of the game. I loved looking over to the sidelines from my perch at second base or shortstop and seeing my dad with the "Coach" t-shirt on. He made us laugh, made funny nicknames for my teammates, taught us how to take the game seriously but not take ourselves too seriously while playing it. His crowning achievement was my seventh grade year, when we steadily worked our way to the championship game, against our town's other team, our sworn rivals. It all came down to that final game, and when the final out was made, putting us on top 13-12, I felt like I had won the world. I was proud of myself and my team, but I think I was the most proud of my dad. He was able to take a team of girls with varying skill levels and find the right formula to send them to a victory. The indelible mark that my years as a softball player left on my heart owes its origin and endurance to my father--he is completely intertwined in my sweet memories of the sport.
When I reached high school, my involvement with softball intensified. I played on travelling summer and fall leagues, attended camps and of course, played for my high school. I loved donning that uniform, even if those synthetic knickers were ghastly hot. I loved crouching in the field with my Wootton Patriot Game hat on, (Game being the popular brand name for hats at the time), my last name embroidered on the back. Those years of softball competition are a swirl of senses and emotions for me. There's the firm, unyielding feel of a new pair of cleats; the satisfying cloud of infield dirt as it coats your skin, dusts your eyelids and sends little grits into your teeth as you safely slide into third. There's the smell of freshly cut grass and a cooler of Gatorade on ice; that settling aroma of a spring or summer's evening coming to a close as you work your way through the game, pitch by pitch. There's the clanking of bats and balls in the always heavy equipment bag, the murmur of family and friends on the bleachers, and the boisterous cheers of your teammates as you face the pitcher, or as you huddle at the pitcher's mound before an inning, shouting, "Three up, three down, don't let 'em get around." There's that burst of satisfaction as your bat connects squarely with the ball and line drives for a base hit, or the flutter of your stomach as that last pitch on a 3-2 count whizzes by and you finally hear "Ball 4!" There's the thrill when you feel the swift mechanics of your body as it springs into action towards a grounder, scoops it up and throws to first for an out; the fantastic joy of watching the game winning run streak across home plate at the bottom of the ninth, and the ensuing celebration.
I think what I loved most about softball was the slow, steady and concentrated pace at which the game was played; how you moved methodically through each inning, either chipping away at the other team's lead or building one of your own. I liked how precise each movement felt, how every girl on the team had her own distinct purpose. I loved having command of my own patch of the infield, and also looking back at my outfielders, trusting their skills in a different area of the field. I loved sharing the thrills and the disappointments with a group of girls that even if we weren't in the same group of friends, on the field we were each others support, a source of laughter, and providers of that buoyant spirit that comes from being part of a team. You always felt special, standing at bat as the girls chanted behind you, "Seven is her number, Carla is her name! And she is just one reason, we're gonna win this game."
So as I sat on the sidelines last week and listened to the girls tiny voices chant some of those same cheers, what I really heard was the sound of my childhood, and my adolescence, as experienced on the softball field. All the voices of those with whom I shared the field, singing, "We want a single, just a little single..."
I would guess that the girls were around eight or nine years old, judging from their stature and the typical fielding errors that plagued the defense. A throw from the shortstop gets by the first basemen, an easy out at third goes unmade as the base is left uncovered, a soft fly ball taps a glove but ends with that disappointing plop into the sand. I felt the infield's pain as the base runners crept steadily by, but knew that once that third out was achieved, their errors would be mirrored by the opposing side and they would have their turn to trot the diamond. I had, after all, been there when I was their age and discovering my love for this sport. Watching them brought me swiftly back to my days on the field--the triumphs, the frustrations, the camaraderie, and the intangible contentment achieved from the most spectacular to the simplest moments during those nine innings.
If I try to pinpoint my earliest interaction with any softball paraphernalia, it would be watching my dad oil his mitt, place a ball inside, secure it with a rubber band, and store it in the dark recesses of our closet in order to successfully achieve the perfect "pocket." I loved the smell of the oil and the idea that in a few months the glove would emerge as an ideal specimen, ready for duty. I suppose I began actively playing the sport in our backyard, perched over our designated home plate armed with the big red wiffle bat. From there I graduated to t-ball and then around first or second grade to the "big leagues" when all the crutches were removed and we were on our own. But, I always had my dad by my side. From the first organized team I joined, he was my coach, faithfully heading up the team of girls and leading them as they found their way around the skills required of the game. I loved looking over to the sidelines from my perch at second base or shortstop and seeing my dad with the "Coach" t-shirt on. He made us laugh, made funny nicknames for my teammates, taught us how to take the game seriously but not take ourselves too seriously while playing it. His crowning achievement was my seventh grade year, when we steadily worked our way to the championship game, against our town's other team, our sworn rivals. It all came down to that final game, and when the final out was made, putting us on top 13-12, I felt like I had won the world. I was proud of myself and my team, but I think I was the most proud of my dad. He was able to take a team of girls with varying skill levels and find the right formula to send them to a victory. The indelible mark that my years as a softball player left on my heart owes its origin and endurance to my father--he is completely intertwined in my sweet memories of the sport.
When I reached high school, my involvement with softball intensified. I played on travelling summer and fall leagues, attended camps and of course, played for my high school. I loved donning that uniform, even if those synthetic knickers were ghastly hot. I loved crouching in the field with my Wootton Patriot Game hat on, (Game being the popular brand name for hats at the time), my last name embroidered on the back. Those years of softball competition are a swirl of senses and emotions for me. There's the firm, unyielding feel of a new pair of cleats; the satisfying cloud of infield dirt as it coats your skin, dusts your eyelids and sends little grits into your teeth as you safely slide into third. There's the smell of freshly cut grass and a cooler of Gatorade on ice; that settling aroma of a spring or summer's evening coming to a close as you work your way through the game, pitch by pitch. There's the clanking of bats and balls in the always heavy equipment bag, the murmur of family and friends on the bleachers, and the boisterous cheers of your teammates as you face the pitcher, or as you huddle at the pitcher's mound before an inning, shouting, "Three up, three down, don't let 'em get around." There's that burst of satisfaction as your bat connects squarely with the ball and line drives for a base hit, or the flutter of your stomach as that last pitch on a 3-2 count whizzes by and you finally hear "Ball 4!" There's the thrill when you feel the swift mechanics of your body as it springs into action towards a grounder, scoops it up and throws to first for an out; the fantastic joy of watching the game winning run streak across home plate at the bottom of the ninth, and the ensuing celebration.
I think what I loved most about softball was the slow, steady and concentrated pace at which the game was played; how you moved methodically through each inning, either chipping away at the other team's lead or building one of your own. I liked how precise each movement felt, how every girl on the team had her own distinct purpose. I loved having command of my own patch of the infield, and also looking back at my outfielders, trusting their skills in a different area of the field. I loved sharing the thrills and the disappointments with a group of girls that even if we weren't in the same group of friends, on the field we were each others support, a source of laughter, and providers of that buoyant spirit that comes from being part of a team. You always felt special, standing at bat as the girls chanted behind you, "Seven is her number, Carla is her name! And she is just one reason, we're gonna win this game."
So as I sat on the sidelines last week and listened to the girls tiny voices chant some of those same cheers, what I really heard was the sound of my childhood, and my adolescence, as experienced on the softball field. All the voices of those with whom I shared the field, singing, "We want a single, just a little single..."
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